


Give It Your Best Shot

by Zenathea



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Reality, Dark Magic, F/M, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2017-11-22 23:12:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 129,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zenathea/pseuds/Zenathea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some men were born average and went on to live an average life. He was not, had never been, and would never be one of those men. With his ancestry, it was hardly a surprise. Facing off against enemies old and new, very few things could come more naturally to him. No Slash. AU. Dimension Travel with a dash of Time Travel. Darker themes: war, politics, questionable morality, and etc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wordly Travel

“Fuck!” Harry Potter swore and let out a pained filled groan. He knew that he had been right. He had told Ron that they shouldn’t have gone in without back up. He had told the red head that the place looked unstable. Of course, Ron Weasley, Avenger of Light, had dismissed his concerns. After all, if a Death Eater thought it was a good enough building to retreat to for cover, then the inside couldn’t possibly be a mirror image of the outside. No, there was no way that the floors were crumbling and the walls were buckling, just as the mortar was falling apart and the roof was caving in. Nope, there was not a chance in hell that the war-torn building, and every other war-torn building along the street, was unsafe to enter.

With another groan, Harry attempted to shut his mind to the pain coursing through him so that he could do a quick health assessment. He had no clue how many floors he had ended up falling. All he knew was that he had followed Ron up several flights of stairs and deep into the rundown office building in pursuit of the enemy. They had ended up splitting up on one of the upper floors to do a standard sweep and recovery, having lost their target amongst the many corridors the second that the bastard had opted to take his chances amongst the offices, instead of continuing towards the roof. It had been when he had just finished clearing the ninth office on his side of the building that a blinding flash of sickly looking light had come hurdling towards him from up the hall. He had managed, or at least he thought that he had managed to erect a shield in time. Regardless of if he had or not, the curse had still sent him flying through the air and crashing violently to the floor some twenty feet back. The next thing that he knew, the floor was caving beneath him and he was falling.

Harry felt the tension leave his body, upon finally managing to force his mind away from the pain and to the rest of what he was feeling. Surprisingly, or perhaps not so surprisingly, he was lying in a comfortable bed with blankets pulled up to his chest and a hand lolled lazily at his side, while the other rested up by his head. He must have taken the hit harder than he had thought, as he sure as hell didn’t remember losing consciousness at any point.

Fully expecting to open his eyes to a wood-paneled room in St. Mungo’s, which had thankfully been the first building rebuild after the war, Harry froze – his paranoia and observation skills honed over the duration of the war kicking into high gear – as he opened his eyes to a blue walled, wood floored room that he had no recognition of. There was a Gryffindor banner hung above a dark stained writing desk in the far corner. A set of matching bookcases filled with books was to the left of the desk. A window covered with deep blue, sophisticated looking curtains was centered between the bookcases and the wall that the bed that he was resting in was position against. A small sitting area had been set up below the window. Bedside the bed was a richly stained bedside table with a mass of fiction books and a lone oil lamp stacked upon it. Not far from the bedside table was a shelf that looked to be filled with random possessions. A Nimbus 2000 was leaned against the shelf, appearing new and hardly used, and a wardrobe had been shoved in the corner opposite the bed with the door of the room position along the far wall between the wardrobe and the desk.

With slow movements, Harry pushed himself to sit up. He winced, his muscles sore and his joints stiff. However, he noticed that the pain had receded somewhat without him having to continuously employ Occlumency to block it. As gingerly as possible and with full intentions of finding out the status of his current situation as quickly as possible, he swung his legs off the bed. He scowled and felt his paranoia rise – panic momentarily gripping him, before he mastered the emotion – upon finding himself stripped bare down to his pants with his wand and its holster missing from his wrist. He scowled deeper, sensing that something was indeed very wrong, as he took in how pale, scrawny, and unblemished his body was.

“What the hell…?” Harry frowned at his hands, which were smaller than he remembered them being a day ago. He brought his right hand up to his face and studied it closely, as if it were a strange specimen of plant or bug that he had never seen before. Where the words _‘I must not tell lies.’_ had once been carved into the back of his hand, there was now nothing but smooth skin. As the implications of such a discovery set in, his other hand flew to his forehead, feeling for the one scar that would surely remain no matter what happened to him. He felt his stomach plummet and all the blood drain from his face, as his hand did not find the jagged edges of his famous, lightning bolt scar, but only even, undamaged skin.

Before he could think too long on his missing scars or his too small hands and scrawny body, a soft, melodic humming that sounded from somewhere beyond the closed door of the room that he was in altered him to the presence of others nearby. As the humming drew nearer, he had but a moment to decide on a course of action.

Judging from the pain still afflicting him, he wasn’t exactly in any condition for a physical fight, and while he was capable of wandless magic to an extent, he had yet to grow proficient at it and, therefore, wouldn’t have much success with using it in a fast pace duel. So, without his wand, which he could see nowhere within the room, he wouldn’t be up for a magical fight either. Fleetingly, he cast his eyes around the room, assessing the situation as best he could and looking for a weapon of any sort. However, everything about the room was benign. There were parchment and school books in disarray on the writing desk, a combination of beginner magical theory books and magical fiction tales in the bookcases, and photos, knickknacks, and various other random items on the shelf by the beside table. There was nothing in the room that would suggest he was under threat or being held captive, and there was nothing that looked very useful as a weapon. All in all, it appeared to be a room designed for and used by a teenage boy.

 _And you apparently look like a teenage boy,_ his mind reminded him snidely. Suspicion and uneasy flooded him. Benign as it all may appear, it was far from benign at all.

With the humming sounding as if it was right outside the door, or was at least very close, Harry made his decision, electing to take a Slytherin approach to the situation. For the time being, it seemed that, whoever his captors were, they weren’t interested in harming him. The entire setup smelt of trickery and of lulling him into a false sense of security. With all things considered, he was certain that it ought to be relatively safe for him to play along, while still in a vulnerable state. When he regained his strength and possibly located his wand, or at least _a_ wand, then he could blast the bastards to pieces and attempt to figure out where he was and how to undo whatever the hell it was that had been done to him.

Harry had barely managed to lie back in bed and pull the deep blue comforter back over him, when the door of the room opened. He inwardly cursed as light flooded his eyes, stealing his vision. After discretely blinking a few times, he squinted his eyes against the abrasive light, allowing his night vision to subside.

He watched from his position on the bed, as a petite, red haired woman swiftly entered the room, while continuing to hum. She never once glanced towards him, as she flicked her wand at the curtains over the window, causing even more light to flood the room, as the curtains drew back and tied themselves off. Still humming, she picked up the few items of discarded clothing lying about the room, before leaving quietly and shutting the door softly behind her.

Harry sat back up the moment that she was gone, openly gapping after her. Certainty he had not just seen what he thought that he had seen. _No, no you didn’t,_ he assured himself, reminding himself that everything that he had seen and would see was a trick. The woman who had just entered the bedroom was not his mother. Lily Potter had died 22 years ago.

Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Harry pushed back his anger at the thought of his mother’s memory being tarnished in such a crude way. He needed to think objectively. Rash action, when he was not in top form and did not have his wand, would most certainly result in him getting himself killed. He was going to need to be smart about how he proceeded. Clearly, whoever was in charge had put a lot of thought into how to get whatever it was that they wanted from him. He really couldn’t afford to let his emotions rule him at the moment.

“Lily, have you seen my tie?” a male voice yelled, startling Harry. “You know…the red one with the stripes?”

“It’s in the laundry,” a female voice yelled in return, sounding further off than the man. “You wore it yesterday, Hun. Just wear the blue one.”

“But it’s my lucky tie,” the male voice complained loudly. To Harry, it sound as if wherever the man was the man wasn’t all that far away.

“Do you two always have to yell in the mornings?” a peeved female voice entered the conversation, as a door wrenched open. The door slammed shut a second later and was followed by irritated muttering. Another door opened and slammed a bit further away, before the sound of a tap turning on drowned out the muttering.

Things quieted, though Harry could have sworn that he heard the man chuckle. As he sat straining his ears in hopes of gaining some sort of further insight into his situation, he reflected that the male voice had most likely been meant to have belonged to ‘his father’. The second female voice he couldn’t be certain of, but the first no doubt belonged to ‘his mother’.

“A sister perhaps?” Harry wondered, furrowing his brow. Looking around what he supposed was supposed to be his bedroom, he caught sight of the various photos on the shelf to the right of the bed and bedside table. Taking care to get up slowly, he crossed over to the shelf and bent down to study the photos.

There were several different scenes captured within them. He recognized James and Lily Potter, Remus, Sirius, and a few others in the photos, like the Weasleys, the Longbottoms, Dumbledore, Mad-Eye Moody, and select other members from the Order of the Phoenix. He scowled, however, at a photo of Sirius with his arms wrapped around a woman that he didn’t know. They appeared to be a couple and had three small children running around them with far too much energy. All three kids, two boys and a girl, looked strikingly like Sirius with his dark hair and all. Not a single one of them had the woman’s golden locks, but one of the boys did have her dark eyes.

Tearing his eyes away from the photo of his godfather and what he assumed was meant to be his godfather’s family, he set his sights on one of the many photos of the ‘Potter Family’, or so he assumed it was his family. He recognized ‘his parents’ easily enough, as well as himself. The girl, though, he didn’t recognize. She was maybe a year or so younger than him. She had their father’s black hair, as well as his eyes. Her face, however, was a reflection of their mother’s soft features. In the photo, the girl wore her hair long with a few braids added to her ponytail, while several loose strands fell around and framed her cheekbones. She was beautiful – a perfect blend of their parents.

Harry shook his head of the direction his thoughts were going, before he could think much more on the girl. _Get a hold of yourself,_ he reprimanded. _She’s not really your sister. You never had a sister!_

Once again thinking objective about the situation, Harry decided that he should probably get dressed and at least attempt to figure out who his supposed sister, the woman that Sirius had his arm around, and the three twerps racing around Sirius and the woman, a three looking strangely like his godfather, were meant to be. He wasn’t certain what his captors wanted from him, but he figured staying ahead of them and not getting caught unaware would be the best course of action for the time being, which meant that he needed to figure out who was who and what was what. With careful moments that wouldn’t strain his aching body, he pushed himself up to stand and headed over to the wardrobe.

Upon opening his wardrobe, Harry immediately raised an eyebrow at his supposed fashion sense. The Harry that he was supposedly portraying didn’t appear to own a single pair of jeans, nor did he own a t-shirt. As if that weren’t bad enough, ‘Harry’ seemed to be a big fan of plaid…a really big, big fan of plaid and button up, restrictive looking shirts, along with some very strange looking robes. Resigning himself to what clothes were presented before him, he pulled down a pair of plain, tan trousers that looked comfortable enough and threw on one of the many pristine white undershirts. He didn’t even bother with the plaid or the weird robes, before shutting the wardrobe. He had better things to worry about than plaid clothing.

Dressed for the day, Harry set his sights on the writing desk. It appeared to be the most likely place that he might find something that would tell him who his supposed sister, the woman, and the three kids were. Upon coming to stand before the desk, a flicker of surprise rushed through him at seeing a half-finished essay in what was distinctly his handwriting sitting out atop the desk. Without picking it up, he read the title of the essay. It was a transfigurations essay that McGonagall had assigned to third years at the end of each year. _So I’m supposed to be fourteen or am going to be turning fourteen soon,_ he mused.

Moving the essay aside, Harry set about looking through the rest of the possessions atop the desk and rummaging through the drawers of the desk, looking for old letters or anything else that might tell him a bit more about his situation. As he opened drawer after drawer and found more and more personal belongings, notes, and a general, disorganized mess, he couldn’t believe how much of a boring, weakling the Harry that he was supposed to be portraying was. He had apparent wrote out an entire list of his fears. It looked to be an excise of some sort, causing Harry to wonder if he was supposedly seeing a Mind Healer. Judging from the long list of ‘Harry’s Fears’, he needed to. He was apparently afraid of everything from loud and sudden noises to the dark and the forest to werewolves and dementors.

“Wake up, sleepyhead!”

Harry started and whipped around – dropping the list of ‘Harry’s Fears’ in the process – as the door of his supposed bedroom flew open and hit the wall behind it with a loud bang. His instincts had him in a defensive stance, despite the ache that he felt throughout his body protesting his quick movements. Upon his gaze setting upon on a man standing in the open doorway, who had messy black hair, hazel eyes, and gold rimmed glasses and who was looking very much as James Potter should at 34 years of age, he blinked owlishly.

The smile that had been on the imposter’s face, upon throwing open the door, disappeared and the man let out a disappointed sigh.

“Harry, we talked about this, remember?” James said, approaching Harry with slow movements, as if he thought Harry was a wild animal that would surely bolt if given the chance.

Harry allowed the man to take him by the arm and guided him back over to the bed, finding it difficult to master the surge of anger rising within him and to not do something stupid that would most likely get him kill. He stiffened rigidly, as the imposter sat down next to him and pulled him into a hug. The embrace was firm, yet reassuring. He didn’t like it. The thought of a Death Eater hugging him in such an intimate way, let alone close enough to hug him at all, made his skin crawl. The fact that it was a Death Eater disguised as his father made it all the worse.

“You were doing so well,” James said despondently. “Did something happen?”

 _Yes, something happen, you bastard. You and your fellow comrades have taken on the appearance of my parents and are quite blatantly attempting to fuck with my mind._ That, however, didn’t seem like an appropriate answer to give considering his current vulnerability, so Harry elected to stay quiet. It wasn’t like he knew what the imposter was referring to anyway.

“Do I need to call Healer Strauss?” James asked, releasing Harry from the hug and ducking down so that he could peer into Harry’s eyes.

Harry felt unsettle, as the man looked at him pleadingly – the man’s hazel eyes looking so desperate, as if the man wished nothing more than to understand what was going on inside his mind. _Yeah, you’d like a shot at using Legilimency on me, wouldn’t you?_ Harry thought disdainfully, while keeping up a void expression and remaining quiet. _Too bad all you dimwits finally figure out that you wouldn’t last two seconds inside my mind. It was so much more fun, when you thought that you could just take the what you wanted from me and could get away with it._

The memory of Avery sitting with drool pouring from the side of his mouth, the Death Eater’s mind completely shattered, flashed before Harry’s eyes. Avery had been the first of many minds that he had ripped through and left in pieces. Voldemort had just been lucky that he had been just as good as Harry had become at the Mind Arts, otherwise the Dark Lord might have lost his mind to him as well, when the Dark Lord had attempted to succeed where several of his Death Eaters had failed. It certainly would have made the war easier to fight, if he had been able to shatter Voldemort’s mind. Unfortunately, after Voldemort’s failed attempt to break into his mind and retrieve the prophecy, as well as other highly sensitive information about the Order of the Phoenix and various other fractions of the Resistance, word had spread of his and Voldemort’s metal battle and of Voldemort being forced to throw Harry out of his mind in order to preserve his own sanity, after Harry had turned the mental pathway back on Voldemort like he had done to so many before. Very few had dared to meet his eyes ever since, ally or enemy alike. What ‘James’ was doing now was mighty brave of the man.

Harry had to keep a smirk off of his face, as he slipped effortlessly into the imposter’s mind, or so he thought that he had succeed in doing so effortlessly. When he attempted to search out an objective, orders, anything that would tell him what his captors were after, he only found memories of James Potter. He saw the man as an Auror, a member of the Order of the Phoenix, a husband, a father, and so on. He pushed harder, not believing what he was seeing, only to find memories going all the way back to James Potter’s supposed childhood. He pulled back the slightest bit, hesitating. It was impossible. No one could create such an elaborate and spanning network of false memories. Before he could think further on what he was seeing, the mental connection that he had established with his supposed father was violently broken and he was forcibly ejected back into his own mind.

Harry hadn’t even regained his bearings, before he felt a rough hand grabbing him by the hair and painfully wrenching his head back. The next second, a wand was digging into his throat and James Potter was towering over him.

“Who are you?” James demanded, his voice surging with anger.

Harry looked up at the man, while silently cursing himself for assuming that James wouldn’t notice his intrusion. It had been awhile since he had last invaded another’s mind and even longer since he invaded such an unprotected mind. He had been careless, thinking that he had free reign since he had been met with little to no resistance. He really should have known better than to push without taking proper precautions to hide his presence, unprotected mind or not.

“Where’s Harry?” James pulled Harry’s hair roughly and dug his wand deeper into the flesh of Harry’s exposed neck, clearly losing patience fast.

Yet, Harry could only continue to stare up at the man, still finding it impossible to believe what he had seen in the man’s mind. No one, absolutely no one, could create a false memory network that spanned an entire lifetime. He knew, as he had grown over the last eight years to become one of the most proficient practitioners of the Mind Arts to live in the last century and even he hadn’t managed to create anything close to resembling even a small network of false memories. To span a lifetime just wasn’t feasible. _If the memories can’t be false, that means they have to be real,_ the unbidden thought surfaced at the forefront of his mind. However, despite desperately wanting to believe that what he had seen in the man’s mind was indeed real, the implications, if the memories were real, were even more impossible and unbelievable than if they weren’t real.

His father was dead! His mother was dead! He didn’t have a sister!

“Where is my son?” James asked in a low, threatening tone that promised unimaginable pain, if he did not get answers soon. Harry actually flinched, as the words cut through him. They sounded very much like the words of a father concerned for his son, a father ready to do anything necessary to ensure the safety of his own flesh and blood. “Where is he?” James asked even more forcefully, his gripping tightening in preparation on his wand.

“Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Come on! Wake up!” Harry repeated to himself under his breath, closing his eyes and attempting to shut out the world, his furious, supposed father in particular. He was having a nightmare. There was no way anyone could build such a complex network of false memories and no way his father could be alive and standing over him, which meant that it could only be a nightmare. He needed to wake up, and he needed to wake up now! ”Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Come on! Wake up! Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up! Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Come on! Wake up!”

* * *

 **Disclaimer:** _Not mine, rights belong to JKR and whoever else has official claim on the HP Universe. The only thing I do claim are the blatant deviations from the Canon. This disclaimer is for this chapter and every chapter posted henceforth._


	2. Rapport

Harry felt the beginnings of the curse stir within the wand press against his throat, before he even heard the first syllable of the curse leave his supposed father’s lips. He reacted on pure instinct, instinct driven by over two decades of fending for his life. Though he was weaker and scrawnier than he had been in years and his body ached with an ever present pain, he pushed himself into action. Nightmare or something wholly different, he’d be damned if he would sit still and allow himself to be cursed.

His attack was swift. One second James Potter was towering over him, the next he had a hold of the man’s wand arm and was ripping the man’s wand away from him. The curse that was meant for him went crashing into the bedside table and toppled the teetering stack of fiction novels to the floor. Utilizing his entire body and the speed and surprise of his attack to his advantage, he wasted no time in roughly yanking James down towards him, while simultaneously rising to his feet and forcibly flipping the man down against the mattress. The momentum of the maneuver had James landing on his back on the bed with a heavy thud and an exclamation of alarm. Before James could fully process the change in position, he scrambled atop the man and went for the man’s wand. There was a brief struggle between them, where he ended up elbowed in the face and took a knee to the gut, before he finally wrestled the wand out of the man’s grip.

“Don’t move,” Harry said roughly, upon his victory, and leveled the stolen wand at the man’s face.

James stilled, his breathing somewhat ragged from the fight. His hazel eyes glared up at Harry with unadulterated hatred, as he looked down the end of his own wand to the face of his son and zeroed in on the forming bruise and cut lip that he had caused.

For a tense moment, the two simply stared at each other. However, hurried movement out in the hall quickly alerted Harry to just how precarious his situation remained. Despite now being in possession of a wand, the burst of adrenaline that had surged through him at the start of his attack was waning and his body’s weakness was once again threatening to claim him. He shook with the aftermath of the attack, fresh bouts of pain searing his muscles and bones and coursing white hot through his veins. There would be no way that he’d be able to duel his way out.

 _Petrificus Totalus!_ Harry thought with some difficultly, deciding to not even give James the option of moving, and turned his attention towards the still open door. With a few flicks of the wand in his hand, the door slammed shut on those advancing towards the bedroom and sealed closed with the most powerful locking spell that he knew. Another few flicks and the bedroom was warded against all forms of outside intrusion.

Confident that the wards would hold for the moment, Harry returned his attention to man lying frozen beneath him. James’s eyes were narrowed into slits, as the man continued to glare up him – the man’s eyes accessing and roving over him critically. It was plain to see that James was calculating his weaknesses, meaning that the man was no doubt aware that he had been physically weakened by their altercation. He didn’t doubt that James could feel the tremors wracking his body. It wasn’t something that he could hide.

“I’m not going to hurt you. I just need time to think,” Harry said, though he did not understand why he even felt the need to give reassurances to the man. The man had just tried to curse him after all. Others had paid with their life for attempting the same.

Without moving from James, Harry allowed himself a brief moment to close his eyes and focus his mind towards reapplying Occlumency against the pain afflicting him. As the pain lessened somewhat, he reluctantly reopened his eyes. With slow and careful movements, he pushed himself up off of James. He stumbled, backing away from the bed on still shaky legs. He only made it a few paces towards the desk, before he was forced to settle himself on the floor, resting against the bookcases to his left.

 _Ugh!_ Harry thought silently, as his eyes drifted back closed and he rested his head back against the bookcase behind him. Despite employing Occlumency against the pain, he still felt as though he had repeated suffered the Cruciatus Curse ten times over. He could only hope that the pain would recede as it had before. He hadn’t felt so weak and disoriented since escaping Riddle’s dungeons three years ago, upon which he had made it a point to never allow himself to reach such a vulnerable state ever again. _Surely, this has got to be a nightmare,_ he thought fiercely, simply unable and unwilling to believe it to be anything else.

As the minutes passed and his body calmed, the pain tormenting him slowly ebbed and dulled to a manageable thrum. With clear and logical thought returning to him, Harry set his mind to analyzing his current situation. While he did indeed recognize that he was having a nightmare, he had yet to wake from it like he had on previous occasions, where he recognized a nightmare for the dream that it was, instead the reality it portrayed itself to be.

 _What if I can’t wake up?_ The horrifying thought hit him with crashing force, as he concluded that he had no way of knowing how many floors he might have fallen, after being hit with whatever spell it was that he had been hit with. For all he knew, he might very well be in St. Mungo’s at the moment, locked within a coma.

The idea of being trapped within his own mind caused Harry to scowl. He opened his eyes and looked to the nightmare version of James Potter, who was lying stiff as a board on the bed. He knew one thing, if he was to be stuck within a dream, he wasn’t going to sit around and torture himself with what-if’s and could-have-been’s. He knew a whole hell of a lot about the mind and what it took to warp reality within one’s own mind. All it would take was a single thought from him for the dream to change, and change it he would. He had had enough of this particular nightmare, coma or not.

Casting a glance around the room, Harry filled his mind with the image of the Gryffindor Common Room. His eyes drifted back closed, as he recalled the round, stone walls draped in bright red banners, the plush, red armchairs, and the warm, crackling fire that had constantly burned within the great hearth at the far side of the room. He imagined breathing in the scent of oak and once again feeling the homey atmosphere that had always greeted him, upon stepping through the portrait hole. With the image vivid and nearly tangible within his mind, he once more opened his eyes, fully expecting to see the Gryffindor Common Room.

“No!” Harry said instantly, his protest barely heard by his own ears, as he took in blue walls and wood floors of the bedroom. Nothing had changed! He was still sitting against a bookcase filled with beginner magical theory texts and fiction novels. James Potter was still lying rigid on the twin sized bed in the corner of the room. The wards that he had set were still active and holding off an onslaught of spells, as those outside the room attempted to break in.

If he hadn’t had so much experience with the finer intricacies of the mind, Harry might have been inclined to believe that he simply hadn’t concentrated hard enough on what he wanted or had to say or do something to initiate the change. Thinking that he had just done it wrong, he might have attempted again, maybe even a third time, to change the setting of his ‘dream’. However, he was more than acquainted with the finer intricacies of the mind, and he knew that in a dream, the dreamer was the master and creator of everything that they experience. The dreamer had complete and total control to the point that it did not take great concentration or skill to cause change, even a fleeting thought could warp the dream and make it become something wholly different. He knew without a shred of doubt that his attempt to place himself within the setting of the Gryffindor Common Room had not failed because he did not put in the proper effort to bring about the change. His attempt had failed because he wasn’t in a dream. He wasn’t inside his mind.

“No, no, no, no, no,” Harry said in refusal and ungracefully pushed himself up off the floor to stand; though he was still in pain, his stance was stronger than it had been a few minutes prior. As he stared blank faced at his surroundings, his mind screamed one long _NOOO!_ in denial of what he was seeing _,_ utterly unable to handle the implications of what he had thought to be a nightmare not being a nightmare.

 _This can’t be real. This cannot be real._ Harry chanted inside his mind whilst scanning the bedroom with wide eyes. Everything from the writing desk stacked with third year textbooks and an unfinished transfiguration essay to the wardrobe filled with plaid shirts and wonky robes to James _fucking_ Potter lying on the bed in the corner of the room took on a whole new meaning. None of it was an invention of his mind, which meant that all of it had to be, in some impossible way, real. Despite every protest and every denial and the fact it made his head spin, everything around him and everything that he had experienced in the last half-hour had been and was real.

Harry let out a slow breath, attempting to calm himself. Panicking, he knew, would get him nowhere. _Right, rational thinking,_ he thought firmly. _Okay, fact: I’m not trapped within a nightmare. Additional fact: I’m not being held captive by Death Eaters or an unknown party of similar ill intent, as the James Potter before me is just as much a version of James Potter as my dad ever was. So, if I’m not dreaming and this isn’t some Death Eater trick…_

Harry frowned down at his scrawny frame, his too small hands in particular. It would seem that he hadn’t just ‘supposedly’ stepped into another Harry’s life, as he had thought. He had quite literally stepped into the life of a teenage version of himself, a version that – while a bit messed up and, for all appearance, wholly different from himself – was deeply loved by his father and had an entire family with his mother and Sirius and all.

 _An alternate life…?_ Harry looked to the living version of his father. _Or rather an alternate timeline…possibly one where Voldemort didn’t attack us that Halloween?_ His hand once again went to his forehead and felt the unblemished skin where his lightning bolt scar should have been. _Would that mean that Voldemort chose Neville instead?_

Harry’s eyes snapped to the photos that he had been looking at earlier. His gaze zeroed in on a group photo that looked to have been taken at a picnic of some sort. Neville was in the photo with his parents, Frank and Alice Longbottom. Moving slowly, as to not cause himself any more pain than necessary, he crossed over to the shelf and bent down before the photo. In it, Frank was dressed in shorts and a cotton shirt, while Alice was dressed in a pink sundress with her black locks dangling in curls atop her shoulders. Both appeared to be of intact mind and perfectly healthy. They smiled brightly at the camera, waving. The boy between them, standing slightly to the front, was recognizable enough as Neville. Though the boy was nowhere near as portly as he remembered his Neville being at that age, the boy still had Alice’s round face and Frank’s blond hair.

“Oh, Neville…” Harry gave a despairing sigh, his eyes fixed upon the lightning bolt scar marring the boy’s forehead. From the moment that he had heard the Prophecy seven years ago, he had known with absolute conviction that he would never wish his fate upon any other. To see this alternate Neville marked with the cursed scar that had made his life hell sent his stomach plummeting.

Harry tore his eyes away from the photo and looked to James, fingering the wand still clutched within his hand. He could feel time running out. While his wards remained strong for now, someone on the outside was sure to recognize the warding pattern that he had used soon enough. After all, there were only so many ways to layer wards in a hurry, and whoever was trying to bring down his wards had already exhausted several options. _Ten more minutes, tops,_ he thought with frustration, knowing that he could weave another layer into the wards that would buy him more time, but also knowing that he wouldn’t be able to hide behind his wards indefinitely.

Harry stood, deciding to make the most of the time that he had left. He had a somewhat grasp on his situation, but obtaining further information wouldn’t be remiss. With the wand that he had stolen trained on James, he dismissed the thought of simply taking the information that he wanted from the man’s mind. James, as it would seem, was a civilian…in relative terms. Not to mention, the man was pointedly looking away from him and most likely wouldn’t make willing eye contact with him anytime soon, which meant that to enter the man’s mind a second time, he would have to do so by force. _A standard interrogation it is then,_ Harry thought, taking a few step towards the bed _._ James showed no inclination of noticing his approach. In fact, the man remained oddly calm.

“I’m going to release the curse,” Harry said, upon stopping at what he thought to be a close, yet still safe distance from James. Getting no response, he turned and summoned the straight backed, wooden chair from its place at the desk. He sat down on the chair with his hands resting visibly on his knees. “James, I’d really like for the following conversation to be conducted in a civil manner without further violence between us,” he told the man, while watching the man’s diverted eyes for any sort of reaction to his words. Seeing none, he pressed onward with what he had come to consider standard protocol for an interrogation, when dealing with a ‘friendly’ rather than an enemy. “However, I warn you now that I’m not someone to mess with. Should you chose to force my hand, I will defend myself, albeit reluctantly. Blink twice, if you understand that ill will on my part will only be incited by actions of ill will on your part.”

Though the man kept his eyes averted, James blinked twice.

 _Finite!_ Harry thought, aiming the counter-curse at the man. Upon the curse lifting, he returned his hand, still clutching the wand firmly, to his knee and settled to wait for James to come around fully.

James roused from the curse with slow, cautious movements. Looking anywhere but directly at Harry, the man stretched his stiff limbs and hastily corrected his glasses. He sat up and adjusted his awkward position so that he was facing Harry, before fixing his eyes upon a spot just to the right of Harry’s head and placing his hands on his knees in mirror of Harry. He gave a subtle nod, silently indicating for Harry to proceed and that he would comply.

“What is the date – day, month, year, if you will?” Harry asked, watching the man for signs of false pacification.

“It’s the 2nd of July. The year is 1994,” James said plainly.

“Is Voldemort active?” Harry asked, keeping his voice detached and letting no emotion show on his face.

“No, and he hasn’t been for nearly 13 years,” James said, his face blank of emotion as well and his voice just as detached as Harry’s.

Harry nodded, grateful to know that he wouldn’t have to worry about Voldemort on top of everything else. He currently had enough to worry about as it was.

“How old are you?” James asked abruptly, giving Harry pause, as he hadn’t expected the question.

"I'm…I'm 23," Harry said, after taking a moment to consider the question and what he would be agreeing to by answering it truthfully. While it was common practice for an interrogation to remain one sided and for it to be purposefully kept one sided, the Order of the Phoenix had often deemed it more beneficial, when dealing with potential allies, to initiate an exchange of truths. James asking him a question, despite him being the one in charge of the interrogation, was a clear sign that the man was willing to enter what was referred to informally by a majority of the members of the Order of the Phoenix, as a Game of Truths.

"Did Sirius end up with the Black Estate, upon Walburga's death?" Harry asked swiftly with anticipation. If things went as they usually did with this style of interrogation, the exchange would be rapid, as they both now had incentive to answer the given question as soon as asked, so that they could ask their own question in return.

"Yes," James answered promptly. "What's the last thing you remember?"

“A fellow mercenary and I were in pursuit of an enemy combatant,” Harry said, prepared for a return question this time. “Is 12 Grimmauld Place under any protections other than the ones that Orion Black left upon it?”

“Not that I am aware of. Who were you pursuing?”

“A Death Eater by the name of Draco Malfoy.”

James’s eyes flicked to Harry in recognition, before immediately looking away again.

“Does Sirius or anyone else live at Grimmauld Place?” Harry asked, pressing onward.

“No. Why are so interested in Grimmauld Place?”

“The Black Library is quite extensive. Has the Chamber of Secrets within Hogwarts been opened in recent history?”

“Over a year ago.” James nodded. “Earlier, when you were inside my mind, what were you looking for?”

“A directive. Was a diary recovered from the incident?”

“I couldn’t say. All I know about the incident is that the attacks stopped halfway through the school year. What sort of directive were you looking for?”

“I thought you were an imposter. I was attempting to assess what your orders were and the extent of how much danger I was in. Is the Triwizard Tournament being held at Hogwarts this year?”

“Yes.” James frowned. “Do you often find yourself amongst imposters?”

“More often than I like and probably more often than I think. Is Alastor Moody teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts this year?”

“The post is yet to be filled. Do you know where you are?”

“No,” Harry said reluctantly, not really wanting to admit to James that the man had the upper hand concerning their location, yet unwilling to lie and break the rapport between them. “Where am I?”

“My family’s cottage in Godric’s Hollow,” James said, his lips quirking the slightest bit in acknowledgement of the playing field being leveled once more. “Who trained you in the Mind Arts?”

“Albus Dumbledore taught me the basics. The rest I taught myself. Did you ever place your home under the Fidelius Charm?”

“Yes.” James’s lips pulled into a thin line. “How old were you, when you first began learning the Mind Arts?”

“Fifteen. Who was your Secret Keeper?”

“Sirius Black. Why did Albus elect to teach a fifteen year old a branch of highly complicated, borderline dark magic?”

“At the time, it was essential to my health and to the safety of those around me that I learn,” Harry said, despite still reeling from the revelation that Sirius _had_ been Secret Keeper for the Potters of this timeline. He would have to think on the implications later. “Did you ever consider switching Secret Keepers?”

“No. What year were you born?”

“1980. Does the public believe Voldemort to be dead?”

“Yes. Is my family significant to you in some way?”

“Sort of,” Harry said cautiously. “Was Neville the one to vanquish Voldemort?”

“Yes and no. Did you attend Hogwarts?”

“Yes. What do you mean by yes and no?”

“Augusta Longbottom willing gave her life for Neville, providing Neville with a strong protection. Voldemort’s curse rebounded off of the protection, when he attempted to kill Neville, and killed him instead. Where do you live?”

“London.” _12 Grimmauld Place to be specific,_ Harry added mentally. “Was there a prophecy made that predicts Voldemort’s defeat?”

“Yes,” James said somewhat hesitantly. “What do you know of it?”

“The exact wording, yet possibly next nothing at all,” Harry said, after taking a second to carefully considering his answer. “Was the Philosopher’s Stone housed within Hogwarts the 1991-1992 school year?”

“I don’t believe so. How did you come to know the wording of the prophecy?”

“Albus Dumbledore shared the prophecy’s full contents with me, after I lost someone dear to me in an attempt to protect it. Did one Quirinus Quirrell ever teach Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts?”

“No, though he did teach Muggle Studies at one point in time. Who did you lose in protecting the prophecy?”

“My godfather. Has anyone attempted to break into Gringotts within the last decade?”

“A few years ago.” James nodded. “How close of a relationship do you have to Albus?”

“I’d say that he viewed me as a cross between a surrogate grandson and a means to an end. Was the perpetrator caught?”

“No. Why did you choose the life of a mercenary?”

“I didn’t choose it. It chose me. Did the perpetrator manage to steal anything?”

“No. The vault had been emptied earlier in the week. How old were you, when you became a mercenary?”

“11, essentially, though I didn’t start getting paid until I was 19. Are you still friends with Peter Pettigrew?”

“No.” James lowered his eyes to the floor, sadness and remorse plainly visible on his face. “Have you’ve killed someone in full knowledge that your actions would result in the other person’s death?”

“Yes.” Harry said detachedly, while wondering at the man’s reaction to his question about Pettigrew. “Have you?”

James briefly looked up at Harry, before quickly looking away again. A tense moment passed between them. “With great regret afterwards, yes, I have. How old were you the first time you knowingly took a life?”

“11, in self-defense.” Harry wetted his lips in anticipation of the answer to his next question. “Why aren’t you friends with Pettigrew?”

“It’s difficult to remain friends with a dead man.” James’s eyes hard behind his glasses, a clear warning to drop the subject. “Where were your parents, when you were forced to kill at the age of eleven?”

“Dead. Was Barty Crouch Jr. ever convicted of being a Death Eater?”

“Yes. How is my family significant to you?”

“Pass, ask a different question,” Harry said. He wasn’t ready to give his name just yet. Not to mention, he didn’t think James was ready to know who he was just yet either.

“No,” James said firmly.

“Ask a dif–” Harry cut off, feeling a sudden flare in his wards.

“You were saying?” James looked to Harry knowingly. Harry didn’t doubt that the man had been counting the minutes remaining on his ward as well.

Harry ignored the question, instead focusing on coming up with plan of action. He had maybe a minute, more likely seconds left, before his wards ended up completely ripped to shreds.

“I can help you,” James said seriously.

“Doubt it,” Harry muttered, while racking his brain for how best to approach the coming confrontation. _Resisting would probably be a bad idea,_ he thought, despite not liking the alternative of submission. However, in his current state, he didn’t have a whole hell of a lot of options. It would be resist or surrender, and he was fairly certain that both would end with the same result: him captured at wand point.

“Harry, return my wand, and I’ll do my best to help you,” James said, holding out his hand expectantly and actually looking at Harry.

“I’m not your son.” Harry shook his head dismissively, while debating whether the window was a feasible escape route. As he apparently wasn’t being held captive, there most likely wouldn’t be any wards to prevent him from using it as an exit, though it remained debatable whether he would be able to get out the window and down to the ground quick enough to avoid capture. He doubted it, considering his current weakened state.

“Maybe not,” James said. His choice of words and the way that he said them caused Harry to look to him and actually give the man his attention.

As Harry took in James’s beseeching expression, he picked up on a flick of something in the man’s eyes that suggested that the man knew more than he was letting on. As James continued to hold his gaze, he couldn’t help but wonder what exact it was that the man thought that he knew. With such freely given eye contact, he was sorely tempted to find out. However, entering James’s mind without permission a second time seemed an unwise move on his part.

“Just trust me, all right? Trust me that I can and will help you,” James spoke softly, his hand still held out expectantly and sincerity practically radiating off of him, just begging Harry to trust him.

Harry surveyed James critically whilst thinking that the man definitely had practice at gaining people’s trust. _He wouldn’t have initiated a Game of Truths, if he hadn’t,_ he realized belatedly and, as he looked into the man’s hazel eyes, he realized that he could already feel a tentative bond of trust between them, one that had been cultivated with each truth that they had just exchanged. Slowly, deciding that if he were to surrender to anyone it would be to James, he lent forward and placed the wand in the man’s open hand.

“Thank you.”

The words had no more than crossed James’s lips, when Harry’s wards shattered and the bedroom door flew open with a bang.


	3. To Proceed

Harry had expected to be immediately stunned or, perhaps, be placed in a Full Body-Bind or be affixed with magical restraints. Seeing as James had his wand back and the cavalry had arrived, it was only logical to assume that he would be swiftly subdued. He was therefore surprised, when James held up his hand in an unmistakable gesture for those outside the bedroom to remain where they were. As the man’s eyes looked deep into his own, looking at him with warning, yet without hostility, the message was clear. The tables may now be turned, but their previous agreement remained. James would not attack him without provocation, and it was expected that he would abide by the same.

“James, everything all right?” a voice that Harry recognized all too well asked tentatively, causing James to look away from him and to the open doorway.

James opened his mouth to respond, but hesitated, conflict showing in his eyes. He looked back to Harry, as whatever he had intended to say died on his lips.

“James?” a female voice that Harry had heard earlier and had assumed belonged to Lily Potter asked concernedly.

“Could you give us a minute?” James asked decisively. Though he was still looking at Harry, it was more than apparent that it wasn’t Harry whom he was speaking to.

There was a stretch of silence, before Harry heard a shuffle of movement and the door reclose behind him. James wasted no time in setting a rudimentary set of wards over the room – most notably, a sound suppression ward.

“How is my family significant to you?” James asked, his tone suggesting that refusing to answer the question a third time would not be an option.

“I’m not your son,” Harry said, repeating his previous statement. It wasn’t the answer James wanted, but it was the truth. He did not know what James knew, or rather what the man thought that he knew, but the man had called him Harry. If there was one thing that _he_ did know, it was that he wasn’t anything like the man’s son. He wasn’t ‘Harry’.

“Would you please just answer the question?” James pinned Harry with a contemptuous look, frustration marring his brow.

Harry pressed his lips together pensively, surveying James. In truth, he wasn’t particularly fond of finding out what the man’s reaction would be upon him admitting that he was Harry James Potter, son of James and Lily Potter – only that he was Harry James Potter, son of a James and Lily Potter of an alternate timeline, which would ultimately reveal that he was Harry James Potter, son of a James and Lily Potter from a timeline where he had grown up to be become known across Europe as the Gray Lord, referred to in whispers as the Basilisk, and had renamed himself to reflect the chosen name of his enemy. Porteur Demort had become just as much his name in the last five years as his given name had ever been and had become just as feared by his opposition, as Voldemort’s name had been feared by all on all fronts of the war.

“Listen,” Harry said, the word coming out slow and measured, “who I am and how your family is significant to me doesn’t really matter. All that matters is that this,” he gestured to himself, “is reversed.”

James’s eyes narrowed and his features hardened. When he spoke, his tone was sharp and unrelenting. “When my son was seven, he woke from a nightmare screaming about a man with a face coming out of the back of his head. When he was nearly eight, he woke screaming and exclaimed that a giant snake had tried to eat him. Not long after, he described several nightmares involving cold, cloaked things and went through a phase where he would have nothing to do with Sirius. That is, until one day in early February, when he ran up and hugged Sirius only to turn around and accused Peter of being a traitor. At the time, we all simply believed it to be the result of another one of his nightmares. A week went by with him throwing fits left and right, insisting that we listen and that Peter was working for the bad man. Maybe if I…” James shook his head, scowling.

“Things only got progressively worse in the following year,” James pressed on. “The nightmares became more frequent – a man being struck down by a green light, a dragon chasing him on a broom, mermaids holding his friends hostage, a boy who he had been competing against in a tournament dying, along with a ritual of some kind and a man with a snake like face emerging from a boiling cauldron. It was a little after he had turned nine, when he woke exclaiming once more about cold, cloaked things and, of all things, his cousin, Dudley. Then one night, a month or so after Christmas that year, he had a nightmare that Sirius had died. He wouldn’t talk about it, but he was so distraught after that that he wouldn’t eat or sleep or do anything. Despite Sirius being right in front of him and assuring him that he was very much alive, he remained convinced that Sirius was dead.”

Harry swallowed thickly. All of this was hitting just a bit too close to home.

“We ended up hospitalizing Harry in the Janus Thickey Ward at St. Mungo’s.” James’s tone softened a bit, upon noting that his words were indeed having an effect on Harry. Though, he did not slow in his speech, clearly aiming to make a point. “They kept Harry there for a year, doing all sorts of test and giving him all sorts of potions. None of it helped. By the time that he was finally released, the healers had gotten him to understand that the nightmares were dreams and that they were separate from his reality, but that was about it. The nightmares continued, turning well and truly violent. When he was eleven, we reluctantly allowed him to attend Hogwarts, hoping that a bit of normalcy and being around kids his own age might help him. However, after a particularly bad nightmare a little over halfway through his first year, he went mute and we were forced to pull him out. He spent the rest of what would have been his first year back in the Janus Thickey Ward.”

“Thankfully, with time and treatment, he got better. By his twelfth birthday, he was speaking again and seemed happy enough. He was never quite the same though. There was a wariness in his eyes that shouldn’t have been there, and he was jumpy – more so than he had been since the nightmares started. By the time that September rolled around, he said that he wanted to give Hogwarts another go. We kept him home, not wanting to risk a relapse. With the Chamber of Secrets opening that year, we were grateful that we did so.”

“When the time came for him to start his third year, he once again begged us to let him return to Hogwarts. Bethany was starting her first year and over the previous year, despite his nightmares being worse than ever, he had been handling them much better. We agreed to let him go, and he seemed to do well.” James gave a weary sigh and shook his head. “However, a month or so ago, he had a particularly disturbing nightmare. He seemed please about it, but had also been very shaken by it. He asked to come home and to be allowed to take his end of the year exams sometime this summer, after he had time to get over what had happen. Over the last week, he had been doing remarkably well. It was almost as if he were just a regular boy.”

“So, I think you can understand why I’m a little more than interested in who you are and why my family, particularly my son, is significant to you,” James finished with a pointed look.

Harry could only stare at the man, his mind reeling with the implication of what he had just been told. He had no clue as to how it was possible, but from what James had described, it seemed that the Harry of this timeline had been dreaming, or rather had been having nightmares, of his timeline, his life in specific. James had describe events from his first, second, third, forth, and fifth years at Hogwarts and had alluded to the much darker years that had followed.

Harry ran a stressed hand over his face. He didn’t even want to contemplate which events of his past his counterpart might have witnessed. _Well and truly violent._ Harry scoffed. That was putting things mildly. The last six years of his life had been a bloody massacre – a dark, hopeless, and desolate period in wizarding history for all of Europe. It was no wonder that the boy was afraid of nearly every little thing. While he had lived it and had been forced to face what was happening around him and deal with the things he was experiencing, the kid only knew the horrors of his nightmares and had no doubt been haunted by the images that filled his mind at night.

“Some of the questions that you asked and some of the answers that you gave…” James trailed off meaningfully.

“You believe that I’m the one he dreams of,” Harry said, finally understanding what James thought he knew.

“Are you?” James asked bluntly.

Harry gave a short nod. There was no sense in denying it. Whatever fucked up magic was at work, he was, as per usual, at the center of it. He didn’t know why or how the man’s son had been dreaming of him, but he didn’t doubt that it was true or that he was indeed the one that Harry had been dreaming of.

“At first, he spoke of you, as if you and he were one and the same. After we admitted him to St. Mungo’s the first time, he began to differentiate between the two of you and began referring to you as Harry. Though…” James hesitated, looking a bit leery. “Though after a time, he began referring to you as Harry and Porteur interchangeably and, eventually, settled on referring to you as Porteur. Healer Strauss is concerned that he is slowly developing a Dissociative Identity Disorder of some sort, in order to deal with the dreams. He believes that one day Porteur will bleed out from his dreams and enter into his reality.”

“But you don’t believe that.” Harry could see it in the man’s eyes. James didn’t believe for a second that his son was crazy.

“Harry doesn’t attempt to disassociate from his dreams.” James grimaced. “If anything, his dreams are all too real to him and he embraces them as such. He tells Lily and the healers that he knows that his dreams aren’t real and that they are only dreams, so that they will leave him alone, but a number of times, when just him and I have talked about his nightmares, he has looked me in the eye and told me that you are real and that the world you live in is real. He says it with such conviction that I’m hard pressed not to believe him.”

“Well, as far as I know, I am real and where I come from is real,” Harry said, beginning to feel completely overwhelmed by the entire situation. He was far out of his depth on this one – far, far out of his depth. If it had been a simple matter of locating the curse that Draco had hit him with and finding a counter-curse to reverse the effects, he would have been just fine. However, with what James had revealed to him, he was beginning to get the impression that things were far more complicated than a curse and its counter-curse. Not to mention, there was the very big issue that he had no clue where the Harry belonging to the body that he was current residing within was. It was logical to assume that since he had taken up residence within his counterpart’s body, Harry had taken up residence within _his_ body – which was a less than comforting thought, as his body had been in mortal peril when he left it.

 _He’ll hate me,_ Harry thought despondently, as he looked to James, who was regarding him speculatively in return. _If Harry died because I came here and Harry ended up where I should be, he will hate me. Fuck if I haven’t already told enough parents that their child is dead._

Harry lowered his eyes to floor, letting out a shaky breath of air that he hadn’t realize he’d been holding, and leaned forward in his chair, bracing his hands in the hair at the back of his neck and digging his elbows into his knees. He felt queasy at the thought of what might have happened to his counterpart. It was highly likely that Draco’s curse or the fall or the damn unstable building itself might have done his counterpart in within seconds of them switching bodies – if that _was_ what had happened. Bile threatened to rise in his throat at the thought that an innocent boy, who had apparently already suffered enough because of him, had traded place with him in death – that, by some messed up twist of fate, he had yet again survived, when he shouldn’t have, with someone else yet again paying the required price.

Harry heard James get up from the bed, but did not look up at the man. Instead, he kept his eyes trained stubbornly on the floor, as James closed the distance between them and came to kneel before him. The man’s hand coming up to rest upon his shoulder startled him, causing him to tense reflexively.

A moment of silence passed between Harry and James with James not removing his hand. Harry slowly forced himself to relax, recognizing the gesture as a supportive one. As the tension left his body, James gave his shoulder a light, reassuring squeeze.

“This is a…difficult…situation,” James said, his voice soft. “I realize that it’s not every day that you wake up and finds yourself in a place…a world that is unrecognizable and not at all your own. I can only imagine how upsetting this must be for you. However, in order to resolve the situation, I…we need remain objective.”

As James spoke, Harry realized just how much of an Auror the man was. The man’s son was missing, yet James was able to keep a level head and recognized the importance of ensuring that those around him kept a level head as well. Not only that, the man was skilled in asserting calm. The hand on his shoulder, the lowering of the man’s voice, as if the man was speaking to only him – both gestures were techniques for breaking through turmoil and establishing a grounding connection that would aid a person in calming down and returning to rational thought. The man’s professionalism was the mark of a skilled Auror, one who had extensive experience with extreme situations.

 _Only, he doesn’t realize how extreme the situation might be,_ Harry thought solemnly, as he looked to James. Though nothing was certain, he had a gut feeling that there would be no easy way to reverse what had been done. _If what has been done can be reversed at all._ Harry scowled at the thought. If his body died and counterpart died along with it, then there would be no way of reversing the effects. The swap would be permanent. He really didn’t even want to begin thinking about, considering that it would mean that an innocent boy was dead and he would a war to worry about fighting once more.

Harry scrubbed his hand over his face, while focusing on clearing his mind of what it would mean for him if the swap was permanent. He needed to focus on the here and now, he decided. He needed to apply his mind towards finding a way to reverse what had been done. He had already fought and won his war. He had promises to fulfill and an entire continent to help rebuild back home in his timeline. He had some very important appointments that he needed to keep in the coming week, ones that would determine the fate of several nations. _This could not have happen at a more inopportune time,_ Harry thought irritably, as he considered all that he was needed for back in his own timeline.

Reluctantly, Harry dropped his hands from his face and raised his head, meeting James’s concerned gaze. He straightened, shrugging the man’s hand off his shoulder and drawing himself up to his full height. His days of wallowing in self-pity and fretting over things that he could not change had been long over. ‘There is only the future and what one does with it.’ That was the mantra that he had come to live by, the one that got him through one hellacious day to the next.

“Auror Potter, allow me to properly introduce myself,” Harry said, an indifferent mask set upon his face. “I am Harry James Potter, son of James and Lily Potter, the Gray Lord of Europe – self-named as Porteur Demort.” Ignoring the way James’s eyes widened at the confirmation of his identity, only to narrow upon the revelation of his status as a Gray Lord, he pushed onward. “I _am_ 23 years old, born in 1980, making the year where I am from 2003 – the exact date being 6 September 2003. I am not your son, as both my parents were murdered, when I was but a year old. I ask that you respect that.”

“Of course…” James trailed off, clearly uncertain of how Harry wished to be addressed.

“I’ve always preferred to be called Harry, but no one has actually called me by my birth name in years,” Harry said neutrally, surveying the man. “If you wish, in order to differentiate between myself and your son, you may call me Porteur…or simply Demort, if you desire something less personal.”

“Not Lord Demort?” James asked, his voice carrying a slight edge and his eyes flashing with derision. His disapproval couldn’t be any more clear.

Harry refrained from sneering. “The people of Europe proclaimed me to be the Gray Lord, just as they accepted Voldemort as the dark lord that he proclaimed _himself_ to be,” Harry said, keeping his tone even and his face impassive. “However, I’ve never seen any reason to allow the title to become my name. Unlike Voldemort, I did not need a grandiose moniker for my reputation to spread. Long before I was made the Gray Lord of Europe, Porteur Demort was known from the Norwegian Sea down to the Mediterranean, from the Atlantic Ocean east to beyond the western border of Mother Russia. The Gray Lord is but a title, Auror Potter, not my name.”

“Very well…Porteur,” James said somewhat stiffly, after taking a moment to consider what Harry had said. He didn’t seem any happier about the revelation.

“While I would ideally like to retire to Grimmauld Place and begin researching how to undo what has been done, I imagine that that would be unacceptable.” Harry raised an eyebrow at the man, hoping to get past their differences regarding what magics ought to and ought not be used as quickly as possible and move on to finding a way to return him to his own timeline. However, he knew better than to think that James would simply allow him to do as he pleased. He was an unknown entity, after all, and he was sure that the man most likely had his own ideas on how to proceed.

James shook his head, just has Harry thought he would. “I’d rather you allow Mayra to have a look at you, before we decide on anything.” His eyes cut to the left corner of Harry’s mouth.

Harry frowned and reached up to touch the spot that James’s gaze had fixed upon. He grimaced, feeling the tender flesh and dried blood where James had elbowed him during their tussle.

“You looked to be in some pretty intense pain earlier, as well,” James said with a grimace of his own.

“Well traversing space and time apparently isn’t as pleasant as it sounds,” Harry said dryly, giving James a contemptuous look.

“Sarcasm does no suit you,” James dead panned, his face stoic. It was obviously that he was attempting to remove his emotions from the situation, but was struggling to do so. “Will you allow Mayra to have a look at you?”

“Who’s Mayra?” Harry asked. He had never known or even heard of a Mayra.

Surprise flitted across James’s face. “Mayra is Sirius’s wife. She works as a healer at St. Mungo’s.”

Despite himself and despite the situation, Harry grinned at the confirmation of his earlier suspicions. To hear that the Sirius of this timeline had indeed gotten married and had settled down to a family life was bittersweet news to hear. _At least he found happiness somewhere,_ he thought fondly.

“I take it Sirius wasn’t married to Mayra where you’re from?” James asked, his eyes revealing his curiosity.

“No.” Harry sighed despondently. “He…he never married.”

“Oh,” James said, a pensive look overtaking his face.

“Will you tell Mayra who I am?” Harry asked, getting them back on topic before James could ask anything more about his godfather.

“I had planned on it.” James nodded.

“I’d rather you didn’t. I’d rather you told no one except, perhaps, your wife.” Harry pinned the man with a grave look. He had no interest in wasting time answering a curious healer’s questions, or any outsider’s questions for that matter. At the moment, as far as he was concerned, he had a single objective. “I don’t know how I came to be here, but I’d prefer if my presence was not share with those who do not necessarily need to know that I’m not Harry. We don’t need a case study being made about me concerning Time-Space Travel and the Greater Mysteries of the Universe. This,” Harry once more gestured to himself, “simply needs to be reversed as quickly and discretely as possible. I’ll allow Mayra to treat my lip and check me over, but that’s it.”

“And what do you expect me to tell her, Sirius, Remus…or Bethany, for that matter?” James raised a cynical eyebrow. “In case you haven’t notice,” he motioned for Harry to look around the room, “Harry isn’t exactly capable of setting wards that can block Sirius out for over ten minutes, let alone capable of setting wards at all. Hell, even _I_ can’t set temporary wards at that level.”

For a tense moment, Harry and James stared at each other – the silence deafening between them. Harry knew from experience that the fewer people who knew about something, the less chance there was of that particular something being spread and becoming common knowledge. While he wished to keep his presence under wraps, he highly doubted that James would allow him to manipulate Mayra, Sirius, Remus, and Bethany’s memories to cause them to forget the morning’s events, which meant that the four were going to have to be told something of the truth. Not to mention, Sirius would most likely need to be fully briefed, before the man would give him permission to peruse the Black Library at Grimmauld Place.

“Fine, tell them what you wish,” Harry said reluctantly, knowing his consent mattered very little in the full scope of things. James was the one with the wand, so the man didn’t really need his consent to do anything. It was just how things went for captives in such situations. Though James allowed him to feel as if he might have some say, he didn’t actually have any at all – not as long as James remained the one with a wand, while he remained unarmed. He could only hope that James was smart enough to keep his presence to only Lily, Sirius, Mayra, Remus, and Bethany, whoever Bethany may be.

 _Merlin save us all, if he tells Dumbledore._ Harry mentally groaned at the thought of what the Dumbledore of the timeline might do, upon being informed of his little visit. He loved and sympathized with his old mentor, but at the same time, he hated the man for what the man had put him through and the secrets the man had kept from him all in the name of ‘The Greater Good’, as well as for what the man’s had had planned for him. He didn’t doubt for a second that the Dumbledore of this timeline was much the same as the Albus of his timeline. Sadly, for Albus Dumbledore there would always be ‘The Greater Good’.

“Can I trust you to stay put for a minute?” James asked, looking somewhat uncertain of whether he really could.

“Yes.” Harry nodded dutifully, setting aside his thoughts about Dumbledore for the time being and resigning himself to James’s will.

James surveyed Harry a moment longer, before standing. He looked back down at Harry, as if still wondering whether he really could trust him to stay where he was and not attempt something rash. Upon seemingly deciding that he could, he made for the closed door behind Harry. Without fully turning his back on Harry, he crossed the distance over to the door, opening it and stepping through.

Harry heard several voices bombard the man with questions, before the door shut soundly and he was left alone in the room. He sighed and leaned back in the chair that he was sitting in. He was really getting sick and tired of having strange shit happen to him. Though he had accepted that he was not normal and his life never would be normal, traversing to an alternate world was just a bit too much, even for him. 


	4. Complications

As it turned out, James hadn’t been kidding about the whole ‘stay put a minute’ bit. It was quite literally only a minute after James had left that the man returned. Craning his neck to see behind him, Harry felt his chest tighten uncomfortably, as a familiar dark haired man and a familiar tawny haired man filed into the room after James. It was odd and frankly disconcerting for him to see both newcomers not only alive, but looking so young and unburdened by the long period of hardship each had suffered in his timeline.

Where his godfather had carried a haunted look in his gray eyes and a somewhat defeated bend in his posture, the Sirius Black now before him stood tall and walked with a confident gait. The man’s face was smooth and full with a light sheen and the beginnings of a tan, not at all drawn and pale. The same went for his lean frame, being thin and built of muscle, instead of skeletal and somewhat frail looking. His hair was cropped short, but not overly so – just long enough for it to frame his face, but not long enough for it to get in the way. The biggest difference, however, was in the man’s eyes. They were more striking and full of life than Harry ever remembered seeing them.

Harry could not help but stare, drinking in this man who looked so similar to his godfather, yet so very different. He had seen pictures of Sirius in his youth, had accidently subject himself to a rather unflattering memory of Sirius and his father bulling Snape back when they were sixteen, and had seen the bare shadow of what the man ought to have become in the depleted form that Azkaban and life on the run had rendered his godfather. However, none of what he had seen of the man to date even began to truly compare to the handsome, aristocratic grace that was Sirius Black at 34 years of age, healthy, vibrant, and clearly a man of power.

A throat clearing to his left caused Harry to turn his head the slightest bit towards James, though his eyes did not leave Sirius, who was in turn eyeing him apprehensively.

“Lily is flooing Mayra,” James said. “They should be up in a bit.”

Harry simply nodded, his gaze still not wavering from Sirius. While it was one thing to be confront with his long dead father – a father that he hadn’t ever truly known and only had the barest memory of – it was another to be faced with a living version of the one and only parental figure that he ever remembered having in his life. _Very different,_ he thought firmly. Though he had mourned and accepted his Sirius’s death and had come to realize that not everything that had happened the night that Sirius had died was entirely his fault and that the blame also laid, as Dumbledore had said, on Dumbledore, himself, as well as Sirius, Snape, Bellatrix, and Voldemort, and he had also come to realize that death was not the worst thing that could happen to a person and that death for Sirius had most likely been a welcomed release, he still felt rather guilty about the whole affair and especially guilty about how things had been left between him and his godfather, as he really hadn’t been all that great of godson to the man.

From the time that he had met Sirius, he had continually taken him for granted. Sirius had escaped Azkaban for him, lived off of rats for him, risked recapture and the Dementor’s Kiss for him, and endured living in Grimmauld Place for him. Yet, the best that he had ever done for Sirius in return was to not kill the man the night that they had official met in the Shrieking Shake at the end of his third year. Over the two years that he had had Sirius in his life, he had rarely asked Sirius about his own life or attempted to get to know his godfather for the man that he truly was. Instead, he complained about every little thing that was wrong in _his_ life and had scowled at Sirius for being imperfect, upon actually discovering a bit about Sirius and his father’s time at Hogwarts. He couldn’t even remember the last time that he had sat down and talked with his godfather about things unrelated to Voldemort or the war prior to the night that the man had died.

 _The past is the past,_ Harry chastised himself. It would not do to dwell, especially not considering the situation that he was in. His Sirius, his godfather, was dead. The man before him was not really the man that he knew, and he was not in all actuality the man’s godson. He had lost his opportunity with his own godfather and, like he had been doing for the last seven years, he just had to live with it.

“Porteur,” James said. He was much closer than before.

Harry looked to him, blinking his eyes a few times to rid them of the stinging and pushing back his emotions. Upon taking in the concern look on James’s face, Harry drew a steady breath. “I’m fine,” he said, doing his best to sound as if he was, indeed, fine. All things considered, he was far from fine, but all things considered, he _had_ to be fine.

“Good,” James said, after taking a moment to look Harry over and assure himself that Harry wasn’t lying and that the youth was, indeed, capable of continuing to hold it together.

As silence descended over the room, Harry forced himself to relax back into his chair and keep his eyes trained on James. James held his gaze, not even so much as moving a muscle. Sirius and Remus, who he could not see, as his back was turned towards the two men and he wasn’t about to turn around and allow himself to return to staring at Sirius, remained still and quiet as well. A minute passed and then another. A palpable tension strained the air, as the silence continued. Harry shut his mind to it and contented himself on appearing unperturbed.

Just when the silence had become nearly unbearable, it was broken by a knock at the door. Harry tensed, as one of the men behind him crossed over to the door and opened it. Upon the newcomers entering the room, James beckoned them forward. Two women cautiously moved around James and came to stand before Harry. One he recognized as Lily Potter, the other he could only assume to be Mayra.

“Porteur, may I introduce my wife, Lily,” James indicated to the petite, red haired woman beside him. With her so close and actually looking at him, Harry saw that her emerald eyes were truly strikingly similar to his own, as well as that she was just as beautiful, if not more so, as he had envisioned her to be from the many photos that he had seen of her. “And Sirius’s wife, Mayra Black.” This time James indicated to the blonde woman standing next to Lily. She was of average height and delicate build and looked to be in her mid to late twenties. There was a kind smile upon her face, which complemented her keen brown eyes and softened her sharp features. In her left hand, she carried a black medical bag.

“It is good to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Potter, Lady Black,” Harry said in obligatory greeting and bowed his head to each. “I’d get up and greet you properly, if it would not cause me pain and would not possibly be seen as an aggressive act towards you to do so.”

“It’s fine, Ha-Porteur,” Lily said tentatively, looking for all the world as if she wanted to reach out to him, but had the presence of mind not. Instead, she moved closer to James and leaned into him, visibly gaining strength from her husband. “It is good to meet you as well.”

Though she sounded sincere, Harry could tell that her words were false, as the worried look in her eyes showed quite plainly, even without him having to use Legilimency, that she wanted her son back and that she did not think that it was good to meet him at all. He could not blame her for the sentiments, as he felt much the same about the situation.

“Mayra, please,” James said, looking to the blonde woman, as he wrapped a comforting arm around Lily and tilted his head towards Harry.

“Of course,” Mayra said and stepped towards Harry, drawing Harry’s attention to her. As she bent down and set her medical bag down on the floor beside her, James led Lily over the sofa by the window and coaxed her to sit down. “How bad is your pain?” Mayra asked, while popping the silver clasp on her medical bag and pushing the leather flaps open.

“Right now, it’s not all that bad,” Harry answered honestly, noting that through subtle maneuvering he had become surrounded and that all of the exits out of the room had been securely blocked. Sirius and Remus were at his back, guarding the door. James and Lily were to his right, guarding the window. Mayra was before him, demanding his focus. To his left was the shelf of useless knickknacks and photo frames, providing no retreat. If he had been entertaining thoughts of escape or attempting to resist before, he certainly wouldn’t be now. He was far too outnumbered and, despite being free of magical restraints, his movements were far too restricted, at least in accordance to his current physical state.

“You said that it would cause you pain to get up,” Mayra prompted, retrieving her wand from her violet robes, though she hesitated in pointing it directly at him and instead kept it train towards the floor.

“As long as I remain still, I feel alright,” Harry admitted, remembering quite clearly the fire that he had felt searing his bones and burning through his veins after his altercation with James.

“May I cast a few diagnosis spells?” Mayra asked, standing up decisively and holding her wand loosely within her palm.

“I’m in no position to refuse,” Harry said and nodded his head in ascent for her to cast her spells. He had, after all, agreed to allow her to look him over.

Harry watched the woman’s wand intently, as it cut through the air. He followed the movements, matching them with a general diagnosis spell. As the beginnings of spell hit him, he stiffened, before relaxing, as he felt the familiar effects of the spell wash over him. As he knew from casting the same spell on himself and others more times than he could count, the spell did not provide physical results of any sort, but rather delivered the information of a person’s injuries and ailments by a mental pull towards the afflicted area or areas on the person’s body. From the way that Mayra was scowling, he could only assume that the results were not good.

Again she cast the spell. This time with a look of intense concentration on her face, as the results came to her. Again she scowled. Though, she seemed more worried than anything else.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked, unease settling in his stomach. It was never good, when a healer looked worried – truly worried in the way Mayra appeared to be at the moment.

“I…I’m not sure,” Mayra said, while staring at him in a way that suggest that he shouldn’t even be conscious, let alone alive.

“What do you mean ‘not sure’?” James asked, rising to his feet. Though his face remained stoic and he held on to the calm pretense that he had maintained for the last half-hour, his voice quavered with alarm that the man could not hide. Lily reached out and gripped his hand tightly in her own, distress visible on her face and shining in her eyes.

“His magic…” Mayra shook her head, frowning in puzzlement. “It’s all wrong. It’s like it’s burning upon itself. I’ve never…” She trailed off, giving James an apologetic look. “I don’t know how to treat this. James, I know that Lily said that you didn’t want to go to St. Mun–”

“No!” James cut her off, the word coming out decisive and final.

“James,” Lily said imploringly, rising to stand beside him.

“No,” James said yet again. This time, the word was soft, as he looked down at his wife.

“James, he’s sick,” Lily said, her voice shaking ever so slightly, as she looked up at him with pleading eyes. “I know that you want to believe that this isn’t what it is, however I also know that deep down you’ve known that this could and most likely would happen. Healer Strauss said that the best thing –”

“No, Lily,” James said firmly, his eyes hardening in reproach. “How many times have we gone to that blasted hospital seeking answers? How many Mind Healers, as well as General Healers and every other type of healer under the sun have attempted to help…to give an explanation, only to come up with another false diagnosis that replaces the last false diagnosis that the healer before gave us?” Upon Lily opening her mouth to protest, James shook his head. “I’m not saying that Strauss isn’t great with Harry and hasn’t done more than the others to help him through the trauma of his nightmares. However, like all the others, he hasn’t stopped the nightmares. Worse yet, he wants to label our son as being crazy.”

“James, Porteur is here,” Sirius said, his tone gentle. Harry turned towards the man just in time to see him take a step away from his post by the door. He noted that, while Sirius was mainly focused on James, the man kept a cautious eye on him as well.

“I’m aware,” James said, turning away from Lily, who was looking even more distraught and at a loss than she had moments prior, to Sirius, who he narrowed his eyes at. “But just because he’s here doesn’t make Strauss right. This is something else, something more. I know it.” Abruptly, his gaze flicked to Harry. “He’s as real as Harry has always said that he is. My son is not crazy.”

“James, why don’t we let Mayra finish patching up Porteur’s lip, while we go grab a cuppa and talk about this,” Remus suggested kindly, attempting to appear sympathetic without being patronizing, yet failing miserably at it.

It was as he took in Remus, Sirius, Lily, and Mayra all looking at James with imploring eyes, silently begging the man to see reason, that Harry realized how lucky he had been that James was the first person that he had had contact with. The others would have wasted time attempting to convince him that he wasn’t really who he knew himself to be and that he was really a pubescent boy with a mental disorder. Not to mention, they most likely would have attempted to cart him off to St. Mungo’s straight off.

 _Clearly, I won’t be given actual permission to peruse the Black Library anytime soon,_ Harry thought irritably. He had preferred not to go behind Sirius’s back just on sheer principle.

While Harry didn’t know much about Disassociate Identity Disorder, he had heard enough from his aunt and uncle’s ramblings over the years about anything and everything abnormal and had picked up enough from the way James spoke of the Disorder to know that it involved a person having multiple personalities, or rather identities, that switched up from time to time. According to some article that his aunt had read, one identity of a person suffering from the Disorder might only speak English and be right handed, while another identity might speak French exclusively, be allergic to cat hair, and write left handed. His aunt had spent an entire afternoon scoffing at the article, claiming it as rubbish. However, from the way that James spoke, he got the impression that the only reason the man believed that he was sane and wasn’t a fractured personality of his son’s conscience was because the man believed his son’s claims that he was real, and that was despite having watched him set wards that the man knew full well that his son was incapable of setting and him using Legilimency on the man, which he could assume from James’s reaction that Harry was also incapable of doing. It was as if his magical capabilities had no bearing on his sanity in James’s mind, suggesting that the article his aunt had read hadn’t been complete rubbish after all and that whatever abilities that he possessed that his counterpart didn’t would do nothing towards convincing the others that he was who he claimed to be.

Harry groaned. Looking to James, who was glaring at Remus with firm resolve on his face, it was apparent to him that James was his only hope of not being locked up within St. Mungo’s in the imminent future. He was in a depleted enough state at the moment that the others could easily force a tranquilizing potion of the very strong calming draught variety down his throat, leaving him even more incapacitated than he already was, or simply gang up on him and stun him, which would render him fully incapacitated. Once he was shut up in St. Mungo’s, it would be exceedingly difficult to shake off the influence of the mass of potions and spell that would no doubt be forced down his throat and placed upon him, making escaping highly problematic. He didn’t have time to waste with such nonsense.

 _Well, there is nothing for it,_ Harry decided, as a plan formed in his mind that was crude, yet highly likely to be succeed. He could not let the others convince James that he was fragment of their Harry and that St. Mungo’s was the only place for him now that he had officially succumbed to his ‘illness’.

“D-Dad,” Harry said, purposefully allowing fear to quaver his voice. All five adults looked to him. However, the only person’s gaze that he returned was James’s piercing stare. As his and James’s eyes lock, he reached out to the man’s mind with a gentle, yet detectable touch, giving James every opportunity to resist his intrusion. The man didn’t and instead allowed him to pull forward memories of Harry’s recent breakdowns.

As Harry watched the struggles of his counterpart, he couldn’t help but feel terrible for the state that the boy’s nightmares had left the boy in. While, yes, he had admittedly felt fear many times in his life, had felt his blood run cold with terror, had felt disturbed and disgusted with his gut clenching and his heart pounding, had felt that to die would be better than to live, he had always had a purpose that went beyond his internal cowardice. There had been no room for fear, when innocent lives were at stake. There had been no time for terror, when the world as he knew it could end in a single moment. There had been no sense in being squeamish, when he knew that the death and desolation around him would still be there when he woke the next day and would continue on, until he brought Voldemort to his knees and ended the war once and for all. And every time that he had thought about surrender, he had had all that he had lost to drive him onward and back into battle.

The boy had had none of that, had had no purpose to propel him past the horrors that he witnessed in the night. The boy had only had his nightmares, nightmares that came and went and tormented the boy with every new vision that they delivered, terrible nightmares that affected the boy just as the real events had affected him. The fear, blood cold terror, and everything else that he had never allowed himself to dwell on showed plainly in the boy’s eyes, as he witness the memories of the boy breaking in his father’s arms, clinging to his mother for dear life, folding in upon himself in silence and refusing to speak. It was heartbreaking, yet worse, because, in a way, he knew that he was the cause of it. He didn’t know how or why this world’s Harry dreamt of him and his world, but it was the horrors of his life that had affected the boy so.

Upon pulling out of James’s memories, Harry hesitated.

“H-Harry?”

Hearing the desperation and hopefulness in Lily’s voice, however, caused Harry to resolve himself. The woman would never have ‘Harry’ back, if things continued as they were and she and the others hounded James into compliance. At the moment, he needed her, Sirius, Remus, and Mayra away from him and James outside of their influence. He wasn’t entirely certain what the results of Mayra’s diagnosis spells meant, but he needed time to think and consider the significance of the results, as well as figure out how to get back to his own timeline.

Upon casting an unsure glance to Lily and then to the others in the room, he returned his gaze to James. He drew his arms around himself, as he had seen his counterpart do in the man’s memories, making the act seem subconscious. As he induced a shiver to run down his spine, he shrunk further in on himself and whispered in a shaky voice, “H-he was here, wasn’t he? Th-That’s why you’re all looking at me like-like…”

Harry shut his eyes, forcing his worst memories across him mind, allowing himself to tap into the emotion contained within them. When he reopened his eyes a moment later and looked back up at James, his vision was bleary with unshed tears and fear mixed deep sorrow and uncertainty showed on his face. He could see in James’s stiff stance that the man knew what he was doing, but whatever actual emotion the man felt regarding his display remained hidden behind a carefully composed mask of indifference. Silently, he willed the man to play along.

The choice was taken out of both of their hands a split-second later, however, as Lily practically threw herself upon him and pulled him into a tight embrace, all the while babbling about how everything was going to be okay and that they were going to get him help and that she loved him and always would love him no matter how many times Porteur showed up. As she continued on, her voice cracking into barely restrained sobs, James gave a sigh of defeat and crossed over to Harry as well.

While Harry had returned Lily’s affections and played up his part, the moment James was close to him, Harry reached out to the man, as if seeking reassurance. He bit his lip, while trembling, as if restraining a sob – another thing that he had seen his counterpart do.

“It’s going to be okay,” James said softly, though not entirely heartfelt, and pulled Harry into the hug that the youth was obviously seeking.

“It’s not! It’s not!” Harry refuted, burying himself into the man’s chest and tucking his head into the man’s robes, as he simulated a complete and total meltdown. James’s arms tightened around him, almost painfully so, though the man did not call him on his charade. Instead, through his pretend sobbing, Harry heard James dismiss Sirius, Remus, and Mayra from the room. Lily continued to fret and worry and whisper soothing things to him, while running a hand through his hair.

For the briefest of moments, Harry felt his heart constricted and he felt as if he was headed for a meltdown for real. In that split second, it wasn’t his counterpart’s parents hugging him, comforting him. It was _his_ parents hugging him and calling him son and telling him that they loved him and things were going to be alright. As quick as the slip up occurred, he shoved back his conflicting feelings. Getting sentimental would not help him. _They are not your parents,_ he reminded himself firmly. _They’re strangers, nothing but strangers._

Harry kept up the act for several minutes, all the while making it quite clear that it was James, who he wanted. Eventually, as he gave pretense of calming down a bit, James suggested that Lily go down to the others and recuperate, as it had been a stressful morning for all of them and she looked like she could use the break. She protested, but upon James assuring her that he would remain with Harry and keep him calm, she relented, sounding truly worn.

The second that the door snapped shut behind Lily, James shoved Harry away from him with a livid expression on his face.

“You manipulative little shit,” James said in a low hiss, looking very much like he would like nothing more than to deck Harry a second time.

Harry merely cocked an eyebrow at the man, entirely unrepentant and face clear of tears or distress of any sort. “It’s in the best interest of your son that I remain free and clear of St. Mungo’s, no matter what the cost. I can’t help him, if I’m locked up in the loony bin with so many mind altering potions pumping through my system that I can’t think straight.”

James opened his mouth to give a retort, but, apparently too angry, his mouth snapped back shut and his fists clenched with his nails digging into his palms. He took several calming breaths.

“I’m no expert on Dissociative Identity Disorder, but I know enough to know that I damn well can’t prove who I say I am,” Harry said, attempting to reason with the man. He needed James on his side. “I could cast a hundred spell that you’re son has yet to learn, speak in French, German, Bulgarian, Italian, Russian, or even Arabic, and swear by my own fucking magic that I am who I say I am to no avail. For all intents and purpose, I’d still be who I am, even if I truly were a fragment of your son’s fracture mind. Please, you’re the only one who believes me, and you are most likely the only one who will believe me. I need to get back home, so your son can return and things can be as they should be.”

“ _Never pull a stunt like that again,_ ” James ground out between clenched teeth, but nodded nonetheless.


	5. Departure

The plan was basic enough, though it would involve him withstanding the pain afflicting him and his body’s overall weakness. There was no other option, however – or no other option that Harry was willing to submit to, at the very least. As far as he was concerned, a little pain was worth avoiding unnecessary risks, and sticking around and risking being shipped off to St. Mungo’s was the absolute definition of unnecessary risk in his book.

“You can’t just run off,” James said in protest, as he tracked Harry’s movements about the room with sharp, hazel eyes from where he stood leaning against the edge of his son’s writing desk, his arms folded over his chest.

“I get that you don’t trust me, James, and you have every reason not to. I’m but a stranger to you, and you’re but a stranger to me,” Harry said, as he added a pair of toffee colored, corduroy pants from his counterpart’s wardrobe to the rucksack that he had been packing. “However, you need to trust me in this. They will try to break your resolve. When that doesn’t work, they will plot to go behind your back, in order to do what they believe is best for your son. I could see it in their eyes. Every one of them is set on shipping me off to St. Mungo’s. The only thing you’ll achieve by going down there and trying to convince them of the truth is cause unnecessary strife between you and them.”

“You’re not well,” James argued once more, a point the man had been attempting to argue for the last fifteen minutes.

“I’ve lived through worse.” Harry looked over his shoulder at the man. “I’ve fought and survived a war. A little bit of pain and few days on my own, while I figure this out, is nothing compared to all that I’ve experienced. I may not be entirely well, but I’m well enough for this. I promise.”

“I should come with you,” James suggested for a third time.

Harry shook his head and went back to packing. “You said it yourself: you’re not keyed into the wards protecting Grimmauld Place.”

“Should I find it disturbing that you are and are apparently very familiar with the Black Library?” James asked, his eyes narrowing and brow drawing tight with consternation.

“If I were _your_ son and had been raised as a Potter ought to be raised, yes, you probably should.” Harry gave the man a sardonic look. “Seeing as I’m not your son and was raised with little knowledge of my heritage and have lived a majority of my life in a hostile environment, you should just be happy that I have turned out as well as I have.”

Silence reigned between Harry and James, as Harry finished packing a change of clothes into the rucksack and moved on to packing a few other items that he thought might be useful to him.

“You’re certain that the wards will recognize that you’ve been keyed into them back in your world?” James asked dubiously, as he stepped aside to allow Harry better access to the desk.

“You don’t know much about the nature of magic in regard to the soul, do you?” Harry asked, while pulling open the left hand drawer and removing an unused, leather bound journal that he had located earlier. He plucked up a sealed pot of ink and a few fresh quills from one of the upper compartments of the desk.

“No, I don’t,” James admitted, his hazel eyes continuing to track Harry’s every move.

Harry hummed and began riffling through the back, right hand drawer of the desk, looking for the chalk that he had found during his previous search. “I don’t have time to explain in detail the relationship between one’s magic and one’s soul or the link between one’s memories, one’s magic, and one’s soul. It’s all very complex and the dependency correlations get a bit messy. The gist of it, though, is that wherever the soul goes, one’s magic and memories follow…to an extent. After all, the creation of a horcrux divides the soul, which divides the memories and magic…and, well, it all really does get fairly complicated, especially if one creates more than one horcrux. Giving up too many memories or too much of one’s innate magic…the results –”

“Woah! Hold up a minute,” James interrupted Harry’s tirade. The man’s horror showed plainly on his face. “Horcrux? Dividing the soul? Just what in Merlin’s name are you on about?”

Harry froze in his movements, blinked, looked up at James, and blinked again. He was so used to the people around him knowing what a horcrux was and that Voldemort, specifically, had created seven of the blasted things that he hadn’t even thought to censor himself. _Curse it all!_ he thought irritably, reminded by the man’s ignorance that in this timeline the world had yet to face Voldemort’s second rise to power. Though, if events surrounding the upcoming Triwizard Tournament in this world went anything like the events that had surrounded the Triwizard Tournament in his world, James and the others would be faced, once more, with a _very_ immortal dark lord _very_ soon.

“Well?” James demanded with impatience.

“Do we really have to do this right now?” Harry asked just as impatiently. _He_ did not have time at the moment to discuss just how depraved Voldemort truly was, and if he didn’t have time, then James didn’t have time for it either, even if a long winded discussion about Voldemort’s horcruxes would ultimately prove beneficial to this world’s future. As it was, he needed to leave, before someone came up to check on them. “We’re already cutting things close as it is.” Every second that he stayed was one more second closer to discovery.

Conflict waged in James’s eyes, as the man warred with himself between pursuing the subject further and allowing Harry to get on with his packing, which would ultimately contribute to his _true_ son being returned to him sooner rather than later. “What you were talking about…” James trailed off. “Porteur, how do you know all that? _Why_ do you know that?”

“The war,” Harry stated plainly, as if those two words answered everything. In his mind, they did. The war against Voldemort was his life, had affected every aspect of his evolution as a human being. There was little, if anything at all that had occurred in life that couldn’t be traced back to those two words.

“Knowing about dividing the soul…is important to…the war?” James asked stoically, his words careful and weighed, as if he were measuring the meaning of each one.

“There are some things that you should know,” Harry conceded, as he secured the items that he had collected from the writing desk within the already partially packed rucksack. “Not just you, but the Order of the Phoenix as well,” he clarified and turned on his heel to head back over to the wardrobe to retrieve a muggle jacket and trainers. As he did so, he ignored the circumspect way that James was watching him. “I’ll be sure to write down what I deem is important, before I leave. If you and yours act quickly enough on the information, you may just prevent this world from suffering a similar fate to my own.”

“Our worlds are that similar?” James asked, looking troubled by the very thought.

_As well as he should be,_ Harry thought regrettably, but instead shrugged and moved to sit on his counterpart’s bed, so that he would have an easier time of pulling on and lacing up the trainers. “I can’t be certain without actually looking into your world’s history and attempting to compare it to my own, but from what you said about Voldemort being inactive and how his demise came about…it appears that our worlds are similar enough that some of what I know might be useful.”

As Harry bent down to secure the trainers on his feet, pain thrummed through his body. The pain was nowhere near as intense as it had been after his earlier altercation with James, despite how much he’d been moving around in the last few minutes. He wasn’t entirely sure if that was a good thing. In fact, he was almost entirely certain that the decrease of pain was a bad thing. Mayra had said that it was as if his magic was burning upon itself. Less pain meant less burning, which meant that his magic was settling. If his magic was settling, that meant that his soul was settling within its new environment as well, which wasn’t good – wasn’t good at all. If his soul found a home within his counterpart’s body, his efforts to reverse whatever had happened to him and Harry would be met with greater resistance.

“Something wrong?” James asked, his keen eyes observing Harry’s subtle change in mood.

Harry looked up from looping the laces of the trainer encasing his left foot. James stared back at him, the man’s face unreadable, despite the man’s stance being restrained and tensed with concern. _He sees his son sitting here, yet knows by my mannerisms alone that the person occupying this body is not his son._ He couldn’t even begin to imagine how difficult that had to be for the father. The only thing that he could even think of that would even give him any sort of perspective on just how strange and upsetting that had to be for James was his experience with polyjuiced spies attempting to infiltrate his ranks and get close to him by using familiar faces that he knew and trusted. Unlike polyjuice, however, his appearance wouldn’t revert to its original form after an hour’s time. In fact, he had been in James’s presence for over an hour now; a time-lapse that the man had most likely noted even in spite of the man’s conviction regarding his origins.

Standing, Harry held James’s unwavering gaze. “You’re a smart man, Mr. Potter.”

James raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Harry said, giving the man a grave look that he usually reserved for the most dire of situations. “I’ll do everything in my power to bring your son back to you. You have my word on that.”

“If I don’t hear from you in two days –” James began.

“You will,” Harry stated firmly.

“I don’t like this,” James reiterated his initial take on Harry’s proposed plan.

“Noted,” Harry said and pulled on the bomber jacket that he’d taken from his counterpart’s wardrobe. _Definitely a gift from Sirius,_ he decided, as he zipped up the worn leather. Slinging the rucksack over his shoulder, he cast a glance around the room. “Where does Harry keep his wand?”

James pointed to an empty expanse of floor near the center of the room.

Harry walked over to the area, paying close attention to the way that the floorboards behaved under his weight. It didn’t take him more than a few seconds to locate the one that was loose. He bent down and pried the floorboard up, revealing a secret stash of his counterpart’s things. There were a few scrolls of parchment, a folded photo, an antique pocket watch, and a 10 ¼” ash wand. Harry sighed, as he picked up the wand. Ash wands were notorious for being loyal to their original owners and refusing to work properly for anyone else who attempted to use them.

Upon replacing the floorboard, Harry stood back up. He examined his counterpart’s wand for an extended moment, before turning to the scattered books by the bedside table that had been toppled over during his altercation with James. Giving the wand a flick, the books obeyed his command and neatly restacked themselves on the bedside table. While the wand was workable, he had felt a twinge of resistance. _Not great, but it will due,_ he thought, resigning himself to the wand. It most definitely wasn’t a proper match, but a wand was a wand. He had learned that right quick, after Ollivander had gone missing and his wand had been shattered in battle.

“So, do you want me to actually stun you, or can you pull off the act without the realism?” Harry asked, turning back to James, who was still hovering by the writing desk, and stowing his counterpart’s wand up the sleeve of the bomber jacket.

“I can do without the realism,” James said stiffly.

Harry smirked at getting the response that he had expected. “Suit yourself.”

Under James’s ever watchful gaze, Harry crossed the room over to the lone window in the room that overlooked the front garden and the street beyond. He unhooked the polished latch and pushed the left pane outward, opening the window. Using the sofa below the window to assist him, he climbed onto the window’s ledge, straddling the sill with one leg dangling outside the house and the other still braced against the sofa. Looking out the window and down towards the ground a full story below, he assessed the quickest and safest route down.

“Do you climb out second story windows often?” James asked, sounding a bit closer than he had before.

Harry pulled his head back inside and looked to James, who had taken several steps towards him. “Not even six months ago I scaled Hogwarts’s Astronomy Tower in the dead of night. A twelve foot drop in broad daylight with plenty of hand and foot holds is nothing compared to that.”

“What were you – never mind, I don’t want to know.” James motioned for Harry to carry on with what he was doing.

“I wouldn’t have told you anyways.” Harry grinned, before easing himself out of the window, while being careful not to snag the rucksack on the window frame. Using all the strength and experience that he had, he began his descent. The old wattle and daub cottage provided ideal hand and foot holds. He braced one hand on the window frame, as he reached out for the closest vertical timber and inched his way along the horizontal timber marking the beginning of the second story. Once he had a hold on the vertical timber, his descent became very straight forward and a simple matter of keeping his grip. In less than a minute, he was standing on a firm patch of earth below the window.

Harry spared one glance back up to the window and nodded in silent farewell to James, before turning on the spot and heading for the garden gate with a scowl marring his face. His climb down had cost him. His entire body was aching once more, acidic pain burning in his veins and sizzling his nerves. Ever present pain or not, however, he didn’t have time to stick around. He needed to put as much distance between him and the Potters’ cottage as quickly as was possible, before it was discovered by the others that he had gone. Employing controlled breathing and Occlumency against the pain afflicting him, he pushed himself forward. At any rate, he _had_ lived through worse.

Past the garden gate, Harry turned right, making his way towards the center of the village. With each step that he took and each observation that he made, as he took in his surroundings, the fact that he was no longer within the same time and space of existence that he had come to know over the last 23 years of his life was made indisputably clear.

The last time that Harry had walked the streets of Godric’s Hollow, the entire village had been nothing but rubble and ash. The pungent smell of burnt flesh and the overpowering stench of death had punctuated the hot autumn air with such intensity that he had lost his measly breakfast, only to continue to empty his stomach well past there having been nothing left to sick up. The sour rot had lingered on his skin, in his hair, embed within his taste buds, and up his nose for days afterwards, as did the images of decayed bodies of blackened flesh and the mass graves that they had dug to bury the dead linger on his conscience. Though it hadn’t been the first time that he had come across a burnt corpse, the shear depravity of an entire village having been leveled had disturbed him greatly. He could still feel the skinless, charcoaled bodies that he had helped pull from the destruction pressed against his own body of flesh and life, if he allowed the memory to claim him fully. The only positive had been that the village had appeared to have been hit with Devil’s Fire, which meant that the residents hadn’t suffered long. It would have been over and done with within a matter of seconds. Most had probably passed on before they had even registered that they and their entire village were burning alive.

Shaking himself from the better left forgotten memory, Harry forced himself to focus on the present and took in a large pulled of crisp morning air. The fresh, country scent that invaded his nose and, subsequently, filled his lungs pushed the last vestiges of the memory away. With his sense on high alert, he moved up the lane at a steady pace. He had far too much to worry about without fretting over the existence of buildings and people that ought to have been long gone in accordance to the world that he knew as his own.

_Your mission is clear,_ Harry reminded himself firmly. _Do what needs to be done. Nothing else matters. It’s all temporary – a dream outside of a dream._


	6. A Father's Woes

“So you’re telling me, James Potter,” green eyes flashed dangerously, as they narrowed into slits, “that our _thirteen year old_ son overpowered you, not once, but twice – stole your wand, not once, but _twice_ – _incapacitated_ you – a full grown man, an _Auror_ – not once, but –”

“– twice? Yes, I am, Lily.” James steadily met his wife’s infuriated gaze across their kitchen table, where they were both currently seated. “If you want to get technical about it, it wasn’t Harry who did those things, but Porteur.”

“Harry, Porteur – they are the same person, James!” Lily exclaimed furiously. “They –” she began, but cut herself off and took a calming breath. “Harry is our son no matter what he elects to call himself,” she continued in an even, carefully composed tone. “I understand that you don’t want to accept his illness. It’s difficult –”

“He’s _not_ ill,” James refuted. “I’m not the one finding it difficult to accept the truth for what it is.” He pushed back his chair, the spindle legs scraping roughly against to wood floor of their kitchen, and made to stand. He needed some fresh air. He needed space to think. The morning had turned them all on their heads. He and Lily arguing about what had happened would do no one, especially Harry, any good.

“Damn it, James!” Lily yelled and stood as well, stopping James in his tracks, as he made to turn away from her and head for the backdoor.

“Lils, our son is missing,” James said softly, meeting her fiery temper with self-possessed calm, knowing that if he responded with anger it would only fuel the discord between them. “Us fighting like this isn’t going to bring him back.”

“Then get out there and do something!” Lily shouted, tears sparking in her eyes and threatening to spill down her flushed cheeks. “Find him!”

_I am doing something,_  James thought with frustration. He was doing the only thing that he could: entrusting their son's fate to the one person truly capable of bring Harry back to them.

Though James knew very little about Porteur, he had observed enough to conclude that trusting Porteur to do whatever was necessary was their best chance of getting Harry back – their  _only_  hope, if he were being entirely honest. As startling as it had been for him to realize, Porteur was far greater equipped to do something about Harry being missing and to succeed in the endeavor of returning Harry to them than even Albus was. Something about Porteur (his mannerisms, his speech, the knowledge that he had displayed…) had told of an intellect and an understanding of the world and magic that went far beyond any that he had ever encountered. There had also been a sense of determination about the young man that had left him with the distinct impression that Porteur _would_  accomplish any goal, once the young man had set his mind upon it to do so, or would otherwise die trying. Even before Porteur's open proclamation that the young man was regarded as the Gray Lord of Europe back in his own world, he had picked up intuitively that Porteur was well versed in various magics – the Mind Arts and Warding being only a few of the complex fields that the young man was privy to – and was most likely not only knowledgeable in them, but quite proficient in their practice, as well having no self-imposed boundaries or respect for the lawful restriction held by the Ministry of Magic to restrain use of said magics. There was just that wild sort of feel about the young man.

Yet, as an Auror, James had come across all types, from the most benign characters to the most dangerous wizards. To say that Porteur was wild or insidious in base nature would be incorrect, or so he had ascertained. From the brief hour and thirteen minutes that he had spent with Porteur, he had been unable to categorize Porteur in any definitive manner. He had found it impossible to identify the young man as being civilized, despite the overall benevolent behavior that the young man had display towards him (which had allowed him to feel safe and not at risk of coming to harm in the young man’s presence). Something was just distinctly off in the young man’s eyes and the way that young man moved – something feral and untamed – a force not meant to be mistaken as civilized, let alone subservient to the whims and pressures of civil society. In an opposing assessment, it had been just as impossible for him to label Porteur as being uncultivated and without social graces, just as impossible for him to identify the young man as being truly criminal.

Yes, all of his instincts had screamed that Porteur was dangerous. Nonetheless, the young man’s body language and the very way the young man had spoken was that of control. Porteur was a young man very much in control and consciously aware of cause and effect. James had witnessed as much, as he had watched the young man react and process the initial shock of waking up in an unknown world, rationalize what might have occurred, deduce the situation correctly, and proceed to be proactive in formulating a plan that would bring about a desired solution for all involved. At no point had he even glimpsed a hint of madness, or any sort of behavior that would suggest that the young man wasn’t in possession of a sound, analytical mind. Porteur was, to his understanding, in a class of his own: a highly skilled, deadly individual, who was not only comfortable dealing death, but was capable of rational and methodical thought.

A shiver ran down James’s spine, as he considered the type of damage that such an individual could inflict. A highly skilled and deadly madman was one thing. A rational and methodical politician was another. Both were dangerous to cross. To combine the two…to replace the madness with a sane, tactical mind…and, if he wasn’t mistaken, factor in the bullheadedness of a Gryffindor…the results were incomprehensible.

_‘I’ve fought and survived a war.’_

_‘Have you've killed someone in full knowledge that your actions would result in the other person's death? – Yes.’_

_‘It’s in the best interest of your son that I remain free and clear of St. Mungo’s, no matter what the cost.’_

_‘How old were you the first time you knowingly took a life? – 11, in self-defense.’_

_‘I did not need a grandiose moniker for my reputation to spread._ _’_

_‘How old were you, when you became a mercenary? – 11, essentially, though I didn't start getting paid until I was 19.’_

_‘Seeing as I'm not your son and was raised with little knowledge of my heritage and have lived a majority of my life in a hostile environment, you should just be happy that I have turned out as well as I have.’_

_‘Where were your parents, when you were force to kill at the age of eleven? – Dead.’_

_‘_ _I am Harry James Potter, son of James and Lily Potter, the Gray Lord of Europe – self-named as Porteur Demort.’_

_‘Why did you choose the life of a mercenary? – I didn't choose it. It chose me._ _’_

_‘Porteur, how do you know all that? Why do you know that? – The war.’_

James could not even begin to imagine the horrors that Porteur’s life had to have consisted of for the young man to have spoken with such calm acceptance of having taken a life at the age of 11, of having become a paid mercenary at the age of 19, of having earned the title ‘Gray Lord of Europe’ with a widespread reputation to back up his claim to said title, or of having fought and survived a war all. What his son must have seen in his dreams, James did not want to consider. He had seen the aftermath of Harry’s nightmares, and now, after having met Porteur, he was beginning to think Harry’s refusal to discuss the actual content of his nightmares with him and Lily was as much to protect them from the truth of what filled their son’s mind at night as it was that Harry did not want to relive his nightmares during his waking hours. _He_ may not know the full extent of the wreckage that Porteur could wreak upon the world – the deadly combination the young man was – but his son had had a front row seat and most definitely understood very well what Porteur was capable of.

Yet…

_James smiled at seeing his son huddled up with the new book that he had bought him. Harry had been begging him and Lily for months to send him the funds to buy the latest book in the Wesley Spindle series. As a third year student at Hogwarts, Harry had gained unrestricted access to the bookstore in Hogsmeade on Hogsmeade weekends, which meant that Harry had been able to keep up with all the book releases over the last six months. He and Lily had received a very long and persuasive letter discussing why they ought to send Harry the necessary funds to purchase the book the moment that Harry had discovered that Wesley Spindle had released the next volume in the Dragon Series. Seeing Harry’s face light up at being gifted the book, upon his arrival home for Easter Holiday, however, had been well worth the angry letter that he had received for refusing to send Harry the requested galleons._

_Yawning and knocking on the doorframe leading into the sitting room, in order to make his presence know, James waited for Harry to acknowledge that he was no longer the only member of the Potter family awake at such an untimely hour. As was his son’s accustom response to unexpected noises, Harry’s shoulders tensed with distress and his head jerked up to locate the source of sound._

_“Just me,” James said softly, as his son’s bespectacled gaze locked onto his own._

_“Morning, dad,” Harry greeted softly in return, as the tension slowly began to ease from his body._

_“You’re up early,” James commented offhandedly and made to join his son. Lowering himself down into his favorite armchair, he took a quick assessment of his son’s overall state. If the dark circles under Harry’s eyes weren’t telling enough, the fact that Harry had the book open to the end of the second chapter, when yesterday night he had been over halfway finished with it, indicating that Harry was on his second read through, told him that Harry had probably been awake for two or three hours now. The fact that Harry was giving the book a second read through following directly after his initial read through told him that Harry was attempting to distract himself. All evidence added up and accounted for, prognosis: a nightmare, though not a particularly distressing one. If it had been a distressing one, he and the rest of the house would have heard about it by now._

_“You are too,” Harry accused and shifted in his position on the comfortable lounge style couch so that he could sit up properly without having to lean so heavily on the couch’s armrest. He met James’s inquiring gaze with defiance. “Not checking up on me, are you?”_

_“No, I’m up early thanks to Madam Bones. She has ‘requested’ that I go into the office early to prepare for the Mortimer trial,” James assured, while appreciating his son’s defiance, which was a sign of his son’s will to live as normal of a life as possible. A few years ago, he had worried that Harry would never be able to strike out on his own and that the nightmares that plagued his son would eventually cripple the boy completely. He didn’t know what had changed for Harry, but something fundamental had changed in Harry as of late. He was glad to see it, even if it meant that Harry had begun to pull away from him and Lily._

_“Dad?”_

_The uncertainty in Harry’s voice earned James’s full attention. “Yes?” he asked, looking to his son inquiringly._

_“Is it wrong to want something,” Harry lowered his eyes from his father’s earnest gaze, as his words lowered in volume to a barely audible whisper, “even if you know that that something will never happen and that you shouldn’t really want it to begin with?”_

_“Has this got something to do with your nightmares?” James asked with concern, as he attempted to wrap his head around why Harry would ask him such a question._

_“Porteur wants a lot of things,” Harry said, his eyes fixed on his lap. “He always has all these things that he wants, and even though I don’t think he should want some of the things that he does or believe that he could make some of the other things that he wants actually happen, he wants them and he somehow makes them happen. He is so close now…to his final goal…he –” Harry shut his eyes, trying to forget something that he clearly didn’t want to remember or think of._

_“Are we only talking about Porteur wanting things, or are we talking about something that you want as well?” James asked, doing his best to not reach out to Harry and smoother him with reassurances as he wanted to. This maturing version of his son wouldn’t appreciate ‘being babied’ without him first reaching out to him and asking for the warmth of his father’s embrace._

_“Is it wrong?” Harry opened his eyes and looked up to his father pleadingly._

_“I’d say that it depends on what it is that you want,” James said in answer to the strange inquiry. “But if you know you shouldn’t want it, then perhaps you shouldn’t, especially if you know that it will never happen, as you’ll be wasting your time pinning after something that you’ll never have and shouldn’t actually want.”_

_Harry shoulders dropped and he nodded his understanding, looking completely put out._

_“What is it that you want, Harry?” James asked, leaning forward out the worn leather armchair that he loved so much and taking his son’s hands into his own. Though Harry had indicated that it was something that he could never have, if James could give it to him, he would. He disliked seeing his children so upset by something, especially when there was something that he might be able to do about it. “You can tell me, you know that.”_

_“IwanttobePorteur,” the words tumbled from Harry’s mouth in rapid succession, guilt and shame visibly darkening his young face._

_James sucked in a sharp, jagged breath, his brain freezing, as it shunned the syllables and refused to acknowledge the admission that had just slipped from his son’s lips._

_“I want to be Porteur,” Harry repeated, his voice strong this time, as he looked directly into his father eyes. “I’m tired of being scared and weak. I’m tired of knowing what I know, but unable to do anything about any of it, because everyone except you thinks that I’ve lost it and would never believe me or you, if we try to tell them. Dad, I’m tired of people treating me like glass. I’m tired of Mum watching me out of the corner of her eye, as if I might have a mental break at any moment. I’m tired of pretending with Healer Strauss that nothing I see at night is actually real. I don’t want –” Harry took a shaky breath, frustrated and angry tears pooling in his eyes. “If there is one person that I could choose to be, if I had to name one person that I respected more than anyone else I know…it’s Porteur.”_

_“Harry…” James said, not knowing how to respond. He felt a faint amount of hurt that his son hadn’t named him as the person that he respected more than anyone else and wanted to be, yet the problem with what Harry just told him went far deeper than his own momentarily hurt pride._

_“Is it wrong?” Harry demanded. “Is it wrong to want to be him?”_

_“No,” the word slid across James’s tongue and became vocalized, before he could truly consider it._

James never had gotten out of Harry just why it was that his son respected Porteur so much. However, the fact that his son did respect Porteur, even more than his son respected him, had left him with a quandary. With Porteur now here and Harry missing, James could only trust his son and trust his instincts. His son wasn’t a bad judge of character. In fact, Harry was generally a very good judge of character. So, for Harry to respect and look up to Porteur, even with as volatile and dangerous as the young man could be, meant that there was something that Harry had seen in Porteur through his dreams that he had yet to see himself.

It was with surprise that James found himself coming to the edge of the pond a short walk into the forest beyond the back garden of his family’s cottage. In his distracted wanderings, he had come to the very place that he had intended to retreat to prior to Lily yelling at him for leaving. He winced at the memory, knowing that the entire situation could have been avoided.

“It’s going to be a long few days, old boy,” he said to his haggard looking reflection, knowing now that Porteur had been right. Trying to convince Lily and the others that Harry wasn’t ill and that Porteur was real had only resulted in Remus and Sirius looking at him like _he_ had gone off the deep end and had caused a major, needless row between him and Lily.

Taking a seat on a boulder that had long been his perch beside this particular pond, James sighed. He felt so helpless, so useless. While he could be out with Sirius and Remus, searching all the places that ‘Harry’ might have run off to, he couldn’t bring himself to invest energy in such a pointless endeavor. He knew exactly where Porteur was and Porteur was the one that they were truly looking for. No, looking for Harry would do him as much good as looking for that specialty butterbeer bottle cap that he had lost as a boy, during his summer between his second and third years at Hogwarts. The only thing that he could do right now was try to keep his worry for his son’s safety and wellbeing from consuming him and his family whole. In a few minutes, he’d go back inside and do his best to make amends with Lily, comfort Bethany, and perhaps come up with something that would allow them to all feel at least a little bit productive in bring Harry back to them, despite Harry’s actual return depending entirely upon Porteur, a complete stranger to them.


	7. 12 Grimmauld Place

12 Grimmauld Place, the ancestral home of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

Harry grimaced at the dilapidated masonry and the rusted iron terraces. It seemed eons ago that he had first stood before the townhouse much as he was now. Back then, of course, his future had been uncertain for an entirely different reason and the house had been, in truth, an entirely different house. Unlike eight years ago, however, he was no longer a stranger to the ancestral home. Though, he was a stranger to this particular version of the house. The building of brick and mortar before him was as unfamiliar with him, as he was with all things in this strange reality.

 _But not quite,_ Harry noted, as he steadily ascended the front stoop. The wards palpably slid along his body, the magic testing him, as he passed each checkpoint unhindered. Though he had never been granted access to the version of 12 Grimmauld Place in this world, he had been granted full access to the version of 12 Grimmauld Place in his world. In fact, he was the recognized authority over the wards in his world, seeing as Sirius had died and willed the entire Black Estate to him. With Sirius still alive to control the wards in this world, however, he wouldn’t have the same authority over the wards, as he had in his world. Still, it did not change the fact that the wards protecting Grimmauld Place in his world had already imprinted the necessary approval on his magic, granting him full access to the property.

Unsurprisingly, just has Harry had assumed that the wards would, the wards surrounding this world’s version of 12 Grimmauld Place recognized the imprint on his magic and accepted him, as if he had been given access by the Sirius of this world.

Harry smiled, as the much abused front door of the ancestral home of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black swung inward of its own accord, welcoming him.

“Home sweet home.” Harry sighed, as he stepped into the long, narrow entrance hall. The dusty and cobweb strewn, gold chandelier overhead had lit up with his presence, yet the dim light of the forgotten wax candles barely penetrated the surrounding darkness or the expansive ceiling that he knew to extent all five stories of the house.

Much like the deplorable state that the house had been in in his world, when Harry had first set foot within the ancestral home of the House of Black at the age of 15, the wallpaper all down the hall was peeling away from where it had once adhered to the walls, the fibers of the carpet running the length of the entrance hall were embed with and layered by dust particles and age old dirt, and Walburga Black’s portrait hung at the far end of the hall – though he couldn’t help but notice the distinct lack of the moth eaten curtains that had once secluded her from being privy to the movements of the rest of the house. He also couldn’t help but notice that the house was even worse off than he remembered his version of 12 Grimmauld Place being eight years ago. Cobwebs clung to the banisters in thick, white sheets of sticky spider silk and seemed to descend down from the vaulted ceiling to spread across all available surfaces with pearly strands crisscrossing from one side of the hall to the other. The air that he had always noticed to have a stale quality to it with a repugnant twinge was far more repulsive than it had ever been.

Shutting the door behind him, Harry whipped out his counterpart’s wand.

“ _You there – yes, you, young man – what do you think you are doing?_ ”

“Taking over this house to suit my own nefarious purposes,” Harry replied in a very matter of fact manner to Walburga Black’s less than affable inquiry and cast a controlled cutting hex up the hall. Like a knife slicing through warmed butter, the cobwebs separated, providing him a clear path ahead. In order to keep from breathing in too much of the dust that had been disturbed, he sent a wind sweeping charm after his cutting curse, followed up by the few household cleaning charms that he had picked up on over the years in order to make dower living conditions just the slightest bit more bearable. “Much better.”

It truly was. Though the cobwebs remained and the wallpaper was still peeling off of the walls, the air quality had been improved and the dust had been dispersed. Seeing as he was on a time clock, he wasn’t about to take time to cast the necessary vanishing spells or repair charms that it would take to restore the hall to a shadow of its former glory.

_“Are you a Black, young man?”_

“My grandmother on my father’s side was a Black,” Harry gave the most acceptable answer that he could without lying, as he advanced up the hall with the full intention of making his way to the Black Library. He ignored the shrewd look that Walburga regarded him with, as he ascended the grand staircase. The old wood stairs warped and creaked under the pressure of his weight with his every step and echoed up through the floors of the house.

Harry paused on the top stair, as several loud bangs and various other noises indicative of the house waking from its slumber filtered down to him from the upper floors. Looking to the animated portrait of the sour faced Walburga Black, he asked about the one being in the house that might cause him trouble. “Is Kreacher around?”

Walburga tutted and turned her sharp nose up in the air in pointed disapproval. “ _No, that blood-traitor son of mine freed him long ago._ ”

 _A better fate than Sirius outright killing him for being the foul, little shit that he is. Then again, knowing Kreacher, death would have been a more acceptable option,_ Harry mused. Kreacher’s fate in this world was inconsequential to him, however, as long as he didn’t have to worry about crossing paths with the deranged house elf over the next few days. The rest of the living beings within the house – the ghouls, the boggarts, and whatnot – wouldn’t bother him, as long as he didn’t bother them, and should they cross paths, he was more than capable of taking care of them.

 _“Why have you come here, little lordling?”_ Lady Black asked with narrowed, suspicious eyes.

“Respectfully, Lady Black, that is my business and mine alone,” Harry said, inflecting his voice with authority.

The painting pursed her lips and scrunched up her nose with disdain.

“Good day, my lady.” Harry tilted his head in farewell. While exchanging a few polite words with the banshee would make his stay more pleasant – seeing as he wasn’t about to start knocking down walls without Sirius’s permission – he didn’t particularly care to drag out their conversation. He had a mission to complete, after all.

Silence followed Harry, as he cleared the first floor hall in much the same way that he had cleared the entrance hall and headed directly for the familiar door that housed the Black Library. With the tip of the ash wand lit to provide him with a semblance of light, he caught sight of the drawing room door at the end of the hall. He froze in his steps, staring at the door, as a memory of what was housed within the room assaulted him.

_He was cold, so very cold. His gloved hands had gone numb hours ago, even stuffed in his pockets as they were – his right hand clutched around his wand, his left hand clutched around the object that was the reason for their trek up this hellacious mountain and their infiltration of a near impenetrable fortress._

_They needed to keep moving, he knew. He knew that they needed to keep moving no matter what, knew that stopping meant that the enemy would have an even greater chance of locating them and dragging them right back up the mountainside to pay for their crimes against the Regime. Yet, they had had to stop. They had been forced to stop, and now they were boxed in – not by Voldemort’s men, but by the weather. An unforeseen blizzard had descended upon them, leaving them trapped – stranded as sitting ducks for the Voldemort’s wolves to sniff out and reveal their location._

_He huddled his shivering body closer to the rock wall of the shallow cave that they had taken shelter in from the onslaught of flurried snow. He could hear the chattering of teeth coming from his comrades deeper within the cave and the faint moans of pain from his wounded men, as their medic did her best to treat them. The howling wind beyond their shelter did nothing to drown out these sounds of suffering that came from within. In moments like these, where the future seemed especially bleak and their chance of survival was so infinitesimal that it was almost zero to none, he couldn’t help but wonder if it was all worth it, or if resistance truly was futile._

_As things were, the second that they cast any sort of magic to better their situation, Voldemort would know exactly where they were and, blizzard or not, he’d send his best to come after them. The item that they had stolen from the Dark Regime was priceless. Its recovery would be paramount. In fact, they’d be lucky, if Voldemort, himself, didn’t ascend upon them to retrieve the locket._

_He slipped the gold item from his pocket and upturned his frozen hand to look at the 1000 year old piece of history made into a vessel for a shard of the Dark Lord’s soul. His eyes traced the curved ‘S’ on its gold face. The Locket of Salazar Slytherin. He had seen the memory of a young Tom Riddle ogling the item, as Hepzibah Smith had proudly displayed it to the charming young man, along with the Chalice of Helga Hufflepuff. That was the only time that he remembered laying eyes on the locket prior to four hours ago. Yet, there was something far more familiar about the weight of the locket resting in his hand than a brief glimpse of it in someone else’s memory. It was almost as if he had held it once before, as if he knew what the frosted gold would feel like against his bare skin, despite having only ever handled it with gloved hands._

Harry pushed the memory away with force and shook his head in refusal to let it continue. He had been horrified to realize that he had not only held the locket before, but had had a hand in putting the horcrux into circulation on the black markets, which had ultimately led to Voldemort coming back into possession of it. The locket had been safe, protected, and in the hands of the Order of the Phoenix prior to him, Sirius, Mrs. Weasley, and the others tossing it aside and condemning it to be thrown out as rubbish during the summer prior to his fifth year at Hogwarts, when they had launched a cleaning crusade against 12 Grimmauld Place, in order to make the house habitable and functional as the Order’s new headquarters.

The Resistance had lost nine of its best fighters throughout the mission to recover the locket. They had lost three men within the bounds of Castle Rohner, two more men had been lost during the blizzard (one to hypothermia and the other to his injuries), and an additional four men had been lost, as they had fought their way off of the mountain. That three of their dispatched squad had made it to the safe house in Vaduz alive, with the locket still in their possession, had been regarded as a huge success for the Resistance, as well as a miracle. The mission had been referred to as a suicide mission by pretty much anyone who had been asked to consider making the dangerous trek.

Without even being fully consciously aware of doing so, Harry stepped past the door to the Black Library and headed straight for the drawing room.

The door opened with an ominous creak and light flood Harry’s vision, as the afternoon sun poured into the drawing room through the large, arched windows overlooking the street below. The room – the excess of cobwebs and dust aside – was just as he remembered it all those years ago, when he’d spent hours playing chess with Ron, joking around with the Weasley twins, and listening to another one of Hermione’s well-meaning rants about SPEW and the importance of preparing for their upcoming OWLs.

“Better days, easier times,” Harry murmured reminiscently, as he crossed the drawing room over to the ornate, glass fronted cabinet that had displayed the Locket of Salazar Slytherin in his world. The rattling of the writing desk, as he passed it and fought his way through the mass of cobwebs strewn throughout the room, didn’t even faze him. It was just a boggart, he knew.

Prying the dusty, glass cabinet doors open, Harry’s heart pounded rhythmically in his chest. He had been in the presence of six horcruxes throughout his life and had been a horcrux himself for many years. The objects were not foreign to him. The feeling of a hidden piece of soul was almost soothing, in that he associated it with being one step closer to Voldemort’s ultimate destruction. Having a piece of Voldemort’s soul in hand meant that he’d soon be purging that fragment of soul from its vessel and, by doing so, be purging a source of Voldemort’s power from the mortal world. If that wasn’t a comforting thought, he didn’t know what was.

“No,” Harry said, as he took in the dusty items contained within the cabinet. The Locket of Salazar Slytherin was missing. The place where it had once been on display was visible, due to the fact that it was the only space within the entire cabinet that was discernibly empty. _Something else might have sat in that space. The horcrux might not have ever been in this house,_ the rational side of his brain offered up in counter to his gut instincts telling him otherwise.

Harry shut the cabinet doors with a little more force than necessary, causing the glass doors to reverberate in their frames and dust to shower him in a wispy cloud of displaced particles. Coughing, he mentally berated himself for even bothering to check if the horcrux was in the cabinet. _This isn’t why you’re here. Getting home, if possible…that is what you’re supposed to be focusing on. This world’s horcruxes are this world’s problem._

Having reprimanded himself for his impulsive action, Harry swiftly left the light of the drawing room with a purposeful stride and made his way back up the dim first floor hallway and directly to the Black Library. This was his mission.

Darkness enveloped Harry, as he stepped into the room. Lighting the tip of the ash wand once more, he sighed at the state of the library. It was just as bad as the rest of the house and would surely take him hours to clean, and seeing as he planned to spend a majority of the next two days in the room, he had every intention of cleaning it. He’d have to clean out the bathroom down the hall for his use during the duration of his stay as well. He wouldn’t bother with the kitchen, however, as he could eat his meals out at a local pub with much less fuss.

Jeremy Adam, the man who he’d lifted a rather fat wallet of off on the way to the train station in Godric’s Hallow, was buying for the time being. Judging from the number of ₤50 notes that the guy had been carrying and the tailored suit and polished shoes that the guy had been wearing, Adam could definitely afford being charitable, even if charity wasn’t the guy’s thing, as was evident from the arrogant, shithead attitude that the guy had carried himself with and the extremely self-centered thoughts that had flitted through the berk’s mind. Adam’s face, when the guy finally noticed that his wallet had been stolen, would have been worth seeing, as the guy had made for a distinctly satisfactory mark. Unfortunately, he had had a train to catch.

Knowing that there was nothing for it and that it was better to just get it over with, despite whatever lingering discomfort that ached through his body, Harry set to work on beginning the long process of vanishing the cobwebs draping the many floor to ceiling bookshelves lining the walls and plaguing the corners of the armchairs and sofa, as well as covering the chairs surrounding the rectangular, colonial style worktable and chest of maps. Once he had the cobwebs and dust somewhat under control, he could locate a more dependable source of light than maintaining _lumos_ while casting, preferably a few oil lamps. Things would go much smoother, though no less tedious, once he had. Household charms had never really been his forte. Their mind numbing nature didn’t mix well with his accustom lifestyle or the general application of his magic in day to day use.


	8. Meeting of Minds

Open books were strewn about the dimly lit library – flopped open atop the colonial worktable, left open for reference atop the seat cushions of the two antique armchairs and spread across the tufted back sofa, teetering open along the edges of the expertly crafted end table set between the two armchairs, and splayed precarious open atop the dark stained, dozen drawer chest of maps. The far right section of the floor to ceiling bookshelves lining the back wall of the Black Library was very nearly bear, as the tomes that had once occupied the section had been pulled from their shelves and scattered in a mess that had rapidly replaced the previous mess of cobwebs and dust that had afflicted the family library.

Amongst the mess of books, Harry sat on floor on the ornate rug, which defined the reading area within the library; his back leaned against the edge of the sofa behind him and his knee drawn up at an angle. His eyes darted across the pages of the hand written notes that he had taken in the leather bound journal that he had stolen from his counterpart.

Two days. Two full days had passed since he had woken up to find himself in this alternate world and had realized that his soul had somehow become displaced within time and space. He had spent a majority of the last 48 hours reading up on as much information as was available to him on dimensional divides and time travel, as well as rereading several tomes on soul magic. He had spent much of the last four hours meditating on the memory of his interrogation with James and their conversation that had followed about the other Harry’s dreams.

It was worrisome, all very worrisome. The more that he had read and the more that he had thought about it; the more unlikely it seemed that the spell that Malfoy had hit him with back in his ‘home dimension’ had much of anything to do with his current predicament. The fact that the last vestiges of pain that had afflicted him since his arrival in this dimension had left him a little over nine hours ago had him all the more worried.

His soul had settled and had bonded with his counterpart’s body.

Harry supposed that he ought to be happy, or at least relieved, about this development, considering that he had no clue what might have happened to him, if his soul had been rejected. Though, based from his previous knowledge and the research that he had conducted over the last few days, that particular outcome had always been extraordinarily unlikely, as Harry’s body was his body for all intents and purposes – it had the same genetic code, had been occupied by a ‘replica’ soul, and had been used to conduct magic that was similar, if not an exact copy, to his own innate magic. The only things that truly differentiated him and his counterpart were their age, their memories, and the imprints on their magic that had accumulated throughout their lives. Soul transfers had been successful with less compatibility.

Harry sighed and scrubbed his right hand over his face, while using his left to keep the leather bound journal propped open against his knees. He had made a promise to James to do everything within his power to bring Harry back to the man. Yet, with the way things were shaping up, his counterpart was as good as gone, if not dead.

There were multiple theories on dimensional divides – why one might occur, what happens to the planes of existence after one does occur, and so on and so forth. However, there wasn’t much research or actual experimentation done on the subject; at least not by wizards, or so the few books that Harry had access to at the moment claimed. If he remembered correctly, muggles _did_ have a whole branch of science dedicated to the understanding of space and time, as well as proving the concept of alternate dimensions. Even if he were able to obtain a book or two on what the muggles had come up with on the subject, though, he doubted that he would find the information very useful or applicable to finding a way to reverse his situation. If there was one thing that he was certain of, it was that magic was the cause for his displacement and was the only possible fix. Muggle science could not rip a person’s soul from his or her body and transport it into a version of the person in an alternate dimension – maybe one day in the far and distant future, but not at the current time. Therefore, muggle science was irrelevant as far as he was concerned.

Yet, magical knowledge on the subject was just as limited and unhelpful. If Harry wasn’t mistaken in his understanding of what he had read, not only was dimension travel widely regarded as impossible, but soul transfers were more than a bit tricky and required power and concentration in levels that few were able to sustain. He didn’t even want to contemplate the power or concentration required to transfer a soul across space and time – from one dimension to another – if such a feat were even possible. In general consensus of all the theories that he had read, dimensional divides occur naturally, when a decision is made that greatly affects the future. When a divide occurs, there is a split in the time-stream, allowing for all possible variants of the decision to play out in its own individual time-stream. The principles that dictate the occurrence of a dimensional divide makes dimensional divides highly unpredictable, as sometimes even the most minor decision, or what was believed to have been a minor decision by the decider, can have an enormous impact on the future. Due to the unpredictable nature of the occurrence of dimensional divides, traversing dimensions was regarded as being just as unpredictable and, in all likelihood, impossible. Without being able to pinpoint an exact destination within space and time, to attempt to travel between dimensions was suicide, as the chances of randomly ‘hitting’ upon an alternate time-stream were next to nothing, or so it was believed.

Harry had found this conclusion unacceptable, of course, seeing as time travel was apparently possible. Therefore, he had wasted a good six hours reading up on time travel as well and had learned why time travel was possible, when dimension travel was not. The answer turned out to be simple and quite logical. Time travel followed the time-stream that an individual exists within backwards, allowing the individual’s time-stream to determine the individual’s ultimate destination within space and time dictated by how far the individual desired to travel back within their time-stream. However, the principle behind time travel (as it was currently understood and applied) didn’t allow for the time-stream to be varied, as the means of time travel, by tracing back through the time-stream, folded time back upon itself and essentially created a loop, meaning that the future would always be as the person remembers it before they traveled back, no matter what the person did in the past to try to change his or her future.

In conclusion, it seemed that Harry had once again managed to defy all known laws of natural existence. He had traveled through time without following his own time-stream back. He had traveled from one dimension to another, which was regarded as an impossible feat in and of itself. Lastly, his soul had been transferred out of his own body and into another without the accustomed ritual being performed by a third party – or so he had concluded, seeing as transferring a soul across dimensions was a feat even more impossible than someone physically traversing dimensions.

Head pounding and vision swarming, Harry leaned his head back against the edge of the couch. He hadn’t slept in the last two day, as his research had taken priority over the necessity of rest. He had been more than aware from the moment that he realized that he wasn’t in his own world that every second that he spent in this world was one more second towards him never returning home and Harry never returning to this world. However, sleep was now quickly creeping upon him and demanding his submission to Morpheus. At this point, after two straight days of nonstop research in his attempt to find a solution, he was willing to submit, as he was no closer to understanding what had happened and how to reverse it than he had been two days ago, and he wouldn’t be any closer to the answer, even if he forced himself to remain awake for the next few hours.

_Harry found himself standing in the Gryffindor Common Room. The heat of a fire burning within the great hearth was warming his back and a black haired youth that was all too familiar too him was sitting before him in the worn, red armchair that he had favored all six years that he had attended Hogwarts. Looking down – having noticed that he was standing at his proper height, yet not able to remember why that was significant – he saw that he was dressed in his favorite pair of trusty jeans, his comfortable, military grade dragonhide boots, and a plain gray t-shirt with his vintage, leather jacket over top. Running his left hand over his right forearm and feeling through the leather of the jacket, he could make out the bulk of his wand holster and the distinct ridge of his wand. Quickly checking his belt, he found that his communication device and dagger were exactly where they ought to be, along with the rest of his supplies._

_He was Porteur Demort, while the boy before him was Harry Potter._

How strange, _he thought to himself, as he looked to the boy. They weren’t supposed to separate. Though he was Porteur, he remained Harry. He had been sure to hold on that over the years, as not to lose himself to his invented persona and become something worse than the enemy._

_“You wanted to come here,” the boy in the armchair said nervously, fidgeting in his seat. He was looking to Porteur with a cross of uncertainty and fascination. “The other day,” the boy clarified, “when you thought that you were dreaming.”_

_Porteur raised an eyebrow at the boy, finding the reference strange for a reason that he couldn’t quite understand._ Had he wanted to come here? Hadn’t he set out with a company of men to track down the remaining enemy in London? How had he gotten to Scotland? The Kill Wards were still active in the Isles. _Yet, for some reason, he didn’t find his situation all that alarming._

_“I…I just…well…” the boy bit his lip and lowered his gaze. “Y-you can take us somewhere else if you want. But it seemed like you really wanted to come here.”_

_“Here is fine,” Porteur said, cocking his head and studying the boy. Though the boy appeared to be a younger version of himself – back when he was just Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived – the boy was wearing an appalling plaid, button-up shirt tucked neatly into pressed, navy trousers that looked far more expensive than anything that he ever remembered wearing, as well as fit the boy properly, and, instead his accustomed bulky, circle rimmed glasses that had been the signature of his youth adorning the boy’s face, the boy was wearing soft-cornered, rectangular, silver frames. Realization of who this boy was hit him like a punch to the gut. “You’re James’s son.”_

_The boy nodded, confirming the statement as the truth that Porteur knew it to be._

_“This is a dream.”_

_Again, the boy nodded. “Sort of, I’m not entirely sure. You’re asleep – we’re asleep – but I brought you here so we could talk. I’ve tried talking to you, when you’re awake, but you’re too strong and I can’t get through.”_

_“I’ve been trying to find you,” Porteur said, as he mind began to consolidate this non-dream with his waking reality. “I’ve been trying to find a way to go home and bring you back.”_

_“You can’t go home,” the boy said in a worried rush and stood, his arm outstretching towards Porteur, before abruptly stopping short of actually touching him._

_“No?” Porteur asked dangerously and eyed the boy speculatively, wondering what it was that the boy was playing at. “Are you going to stop me?”_

_The boy recoiled and shook his head vigorously. His green eyes flew wide behind his glasses and filled with fear, as he took a jerky step back. “N-no, sir. I-I didn’t-t m-mean…”_

_“Spit it out,” Porteur demanded, lacking patients after two days of little to no success. He wanted answers and clearly this boy knew something._

_“Sir, y-you…” Again the boy choked up and shook his head._

_Porteur sighed._ He’s a boy, a teenage boy who has been traumatized…by you. _“Right,” Porteur said and forced himself to calm down and relax. Looking back at the boy, he motioned for the boy to sit back down. As the boy tentatively returned to the worn, red armchair, he pulled the other fireside armchair around to face the boy and sat down as well. “When you feel that you’re able to do so, I need for you to tell me why I can’t go home and what you know about all of this.” He motioned to himself and then boy, before motioning to the room at large, all the while attempting to come across as personable as possible. This boy was delicate. “When you’re ready, okay? It’s very important.”_

_“I’m not scared of you, not really,” the boy said boldly, after take a moment to collect himself._

_It was a lie. Porteur didn’t need to look inside the boy’s mind to see that it was. He could practically smell the fear radiating off of the boy. “That’s good,” he said, deciding to allow the boy to put on a brave front, if that was what the boy wanted to do, “because you’ve nothing to fear from me. I won’t hurt you. I don’t hurt innocents.”_

_“I know,” the boy said a little too quickly, yet seemed to relax a bit as well. “I know you don’t. You’re good, though you sometimes don’t think that you are.”_

_“Good…Evil…” Porteur gave the boy a thin-lipped smile, “nothing and no one can be defined so clearly by such stringent terms. How I view myself is beside the point, however. Harry, I need to know what you know, so I can help us both.”_

_“I only know what I saw,” the boy said, once more looking hesitant, “…and what I felt.”_

_“And what was that?” Porteur asked, his attention riveted on the boy._

_“You died.”_

_The words were soft, barely even above a whisper, breathy and faint and filled with regret, or perhaps sorrow. The boy’s eyes took on a watery sheen behind his glasses, as he bit his lower lip to stop it from trembling._

_“T-the floor collapsed…a-and…” the boy took a shuddering breath “and there was nothing to be done. Everything was shaking, and it was as if the entire building was coming down on top of you, and you were falling. That stupid spell didn’t even hit you. I-I don’t understand what happened.”_

_As the boy spoke, what had been a faint memory became clearer to Porteur. No, the spell hadn’t hit him. In fact, it had hit the floor several feet in front of him. He knew Malfoy’s style well enough to know that that had been intentional and hadn’t been a miss. Malfoy didn’t miss by feet – inches, if his opponent was lucky, not feet. No, the spell hadn’t even grazed him or his shield. What had thrown him back was a shockwave of ricocheting power resulting from the spell making contact with floor, which had most likely pulsed throughout the entire building, if his and the boy’s memory of the event were anything to go by._

_“Fucking suicide!” Porteur hissed in displeasure._

_Of course Malfoy would know that the end was mere days away for him and the few others who remained of the Regime. If they wanted to take their revenge against the Resistance, they didn’t have long to do it, before they all ended up dead and in the ground. With nothing to lose, why not bring down a high-rise on top of himself and the one who had killed the Dark Lord and had essentially destroyed the Regime and ended their reign? Malfoy would be hailed a hero by his remaining comrades for having sacrificed himself to bring down the great Porteur Demort._

_Porteur let out an amused laugh, as he allowed the information to take. While he was, in a sense, deeply disappointed that he was dead and wouldn’t get to see the rise of a magical Europe that was stronger and more united than it had been since the time of the Celts, there was a poetic justice in Draco Malfoy having been the one to do him in, along with having died alongside him and Ron (Though he still wasn’t sure how many floors they had climbed, he sincerely doubt that – between plummeting through the destabilize floors and having the upper floors crashing down upon them – Malfoy or Ron had survived the collapse.). In a fitting end, they had died together just as they had grown up together, risen to power together, and had learned the meaning of the word ‘enemy’ from each other from the very first day that the three of them had dared to breathe the same air inside that small train compartment on the Hogwarts Express._

_“Are you okay?”_

_Porteur looked to the boy who was him, yet wasn’t him and sobered. He had more pressing issues to deal with at the moment than the poetic justice of his death, seeing as, though he had died, he wasn’t exactly dead. Really, dead men were supposed to be dead. Non-dead men were living men, who had yet to die. It was all quite clear. Yet, it wasn’t, as he wasn’t dead and had, instead, woken up in a world that wasn’t his own. Clearly, he had misjudged the severity and complexity of the situation._

_“What happened after I died?” Porteur asked astutely. “Do you know?”_

_The boy shook his head. “When you…died, I woke up.” The boy fidgeted with his hands in his lap and looked down at his interlaced fingers. “It was like always. I woke up from the dream. One second I was you in your world, feeling everything that you felt. The next second, I was awake and back in my own bed. But,” the boy looked back up at Porteur, “but unlike all the other times that I’ve woken from one of my nightmares, it didn’t really end. You were there. I could hear you thinking, feel everything you were feeling. I had no control over my body. You were in control, just like always. I tried to yell, to scream at you that I haven’t gone anywhere, b-but just like in my dreams, you couldn’t hear me.”_

_“So you’re here – in your body – with me.” Porteur’s thought were going a mile a minute, as he considered the implications of what it meant for him and his counterpart to both occupy the same body without one of their souls having been rejected from their forced cohabitation._

This is absurd. If I died, I ought to be dead! _Porteur thought fiercely._ I shouldn’t be here making this boy more miserable than I already have. This is his body! His life!

_“You’ll be able to fix this, won’t you?” the boy asked, looking hopeful. “You always know how to fix things and make things you want happen. You can fix this, right?”_

_“No,” Porteur said honestly. Ignoring the boy’s dejected looking, he pressed onward. “Soul magic has never been wholly predictable. The only thing that I can think of to set this right is to exorcise my soul from your body, yet this isn’t exactly a possession. My soul has settled in your body. My magic has bonded – if I’m not mistake – with your magic.”_

_“You mean what Mayra said, right?” the boy asked. “My magic wasn’t burning upon itself and neither was your magic. They were fusing together, weren’t they?”_

_“It seems a logical assumption.” Porteur nodded._

_“Wait!” the boy said, nearly jumping out of his chair, as his eyes flew wide with panic and he stared at Porteur with abject horror. “If your soul is exorcised, that means you’ll really be dead!”_

_“Correction, kid,” Porteur said. “If I could be exorcised, then I’d actually die, as I should have. However, as I said, this isn’t exactly a possession. I seriously doubt that I could be exorcised, at least not without exorcising your soul as well. An exorcism focuses on eradicating a foreign presence from within a person’s body. According to my soul, I’m not foreign to this body, and in a way, I’m truly not. Now, if I had to figure out a way to switch our souls back (had we traded bodies), we might have stood a chance of returning to our lives as we’ve known them. However, with our souls occupying the same body and our souls essentially being the same soul, we’re shit out of luck.”_

_“I don’t understand,” the boy said, a frown forming his lips and his brow knitted together in confusion._

_“While I need to do a bit more research to be certain,” Porteur gave the boy an apologetic look, “I do believe that were stuck with each other…indefinitely.”_

_“That’s…” the boy began, only to pause and collect himself. “Okay. I can handle that.” The boy nodded, as if to convince himself of what he was saying. “I mean, my life would only be slightly weirder than it was before, when you were only around in my nightmares, but we can work something out. We could take turns being…us. And you could teach me –”_

_“Harry,” Porteur said sharply, cutting off the boy’s ramblings, before the boy got ahead of himself._

_“What?” the boy asked, startling at Porteur’s tone._

_“When I said that we’re stuck with each other, I meant it,” Porteur said, giving the boy a meaningful look. “I’ve studied the Mind Arts at their greatest depth. Trust me. There will be no taking turns and living as separate entities. If we try, my stronger, more disciplined mind will win out over your weaker one or we’ll both go insane._

_The boy’s face fell and he looked down at his lap. “So that’s it then?” the boy asked, his voice quavering._

_“Not necessarily,” Porteur said delicately, hoping not to end up with a crying child on his hands. “Going with my gut on this, as I’ll need to look up a few things to confirm or deny it, there might be a way to consolidate our existence and become a blend of each other as a single person.”_

_“I could be you?” The boy’s eyes flew wide, as the boy brightened considerably at the prospect._

_“And I you,” Porteur said, not quite sure what to make of the boy’s enthusiasm. “But like I said, I need to do some research. While the chances are very slim, we may still be able to remove me from you, meaning that you might –”_

_“NO!” the boy shouted. “I mean,” the boy said hurriedly, “you can’t want that.”_

_“I can’t?” Porteur asked, once more arching an eyebrow at the boy._

_“No, you can’t,” the boy said firmly._

_“I’m a mercenary, kid,” Porteur said assuredly. “Death is my business and an accepted part of my life. If my dying as I should have died will give you your life back, I can damn well want it.”_

_“I don’t accept,” the boy said, crossing his arms over his plaid covered chest, while attempting to look stubborn. “You dying is not an option.”_

_“Your father will most definitely consider it the only viable option, until it proves not to be,” Porteur said knowingly. If there was a way to get his son back, James would do what was necessary. He knew it and this boy knew it._

_“You don’t know my father,” the boy said with narrowed eyes. “He won’t accept your death any more than I will, if there is another way. You’ve spent too much time in the presence of darkness and being ruthless out of the necessity to be ruthless that you’ve forgotten what the Light stands for.”_

_“I’m not even sure that we can consolidate our existence,” Porteur said softly, feeling the sting of the boy’s comment. It was a known truth, but not one he often dwelled on, as the Light had died out in Europe years ago, taking many good men and women with it, before ruthlessness became the new policy of survival. Was he judging James to be more ruthless than the man actually was? Surely, if the man could get his son back and be rid of him, the man would jump at the possibility._

_“Then go do your research and be sure,” the boy practically ordered, clearly set on the idea of consolidating their existence._

Harry gasped for air, as he came to. For an extended moment, he looked around wildly, taking in his surroundings with racing eyes and a pounding pulse. He was in the Black Library, still seated on the floor with his back propped against the edge of the tufted back sofa – just as he had been sitting prior to falling asleep. He put his right hand to the left side of his chest, as if the action would slow his speeding heart. As he did so, his eyes fell on the leather bound journal that had many of its pages already filled and several more blank pages yet to be filled.


	9. Conclusion

Light from two oil lamps set opposite each other at either end of the worktable washed the inked parchment spread out upon the wood surface with a gold hue, while a majority of the rest of the Black Library was, in turn, cast into shadowed darkness. Not that Harry noticed or cared about the dark edges of the room. Awareness of his surroundings was not a priority concern of his at the moment. The array spread out before him, on the other hand…

Harry had put hours into its configuration. He had spent the better part of a day researching its possibility and the better part of the last two days researching and formulating its reality. Every inked line of its construct had been drawn to perfection. Every rune had been masterfully accounted for and placed within the array at the precise location that would optimize its function. Every calculation had been made with potential backlash in mind and countermeasures added to drive the array in its purpose without disruption. Though he would not claim it as his greatest work, as it truly wasn’t, it was definitely one of his more impressive derivations. The power the array could intake and direct was phenomenal.

“Curse it all!” Harry growled under his breath, slamming his fist down on the worktable in frustration, while making sure not to disturb the array.

 _It’s my soul,_ Harry thought fiercely. _I can do with it as I please. He has no say in whether I live or die. I’ve already lived my life, fought my war, and died an honourable death. This will just put things right._

Yet, his alternate self apparently did have a say in the matter. Harry still did not retrieve the ash wand resting a mere inch to the right of his clenched fist.

Harry sighed, hanging his head and leaning heavily into his palm and fist pressed atop the table.

The solution was right in front of him. At this point, it wouldn’t take much – a spell, a few drops of blood, and a bit of pain. The whole thing would be over within a matter of seconds. Mission complete, James would have his son back.

 _But for how long?_ That had been the essence of question that his counterpart had posed to him two nights ago, when he had informed the boy that he had found a way to extract his soul from the boy. They had argued and he tried to reason with the boy that the boy would finally be able to live a normal life with his family, who loved him dearly just as he was. Yet, just when he had thought that he might have had the boy persuaded, the boy had clammed up and had refused to listen to him, as a haunted look had entered the boy’s eyes.

_‘Just because you’ll be dead doesn’t mean that I’ll be able to live a normal life…o-or even a very long one,’ the boy had whispered fearfully, his arms wrapped around his drawn up knees. ‘T-The things that have happened in your world are happening here, Porteur. The Philosopher’s Stone, the Chamber of Secrets, B-Bertha Jorkins’s death – it was in the prophet the other day that she’s gone missing. He’ll rise within the year. I know he will. He’ll use the Triwizard Tournament to get to N-Neville, just as he used it to get to y-you. And all the rest – all the d-death, all the blood and f-fire, and all the pain – it will all just be a matter of time, won’t it?’_

“Curse it all!” Harry shouted into the silence of the library, as his left hand clenching into a white knuckled fist in mirror of his right hand that was already fisted, his fingernails digging into his palms. This world wasn’t his responsibility. He didn’t know the people in it, nor did he care to know the people in it. He wasn’t their Harry, and they weren’t his _anything_. He didn’t actually belong in this world. By all rights, he no longer belonged within the mortal world at all. He should be dead. He should have already moved on to his next great adventure, as Dumbledore had put it.

Harry snorted, briefly considering that maybe this was death and that this was his next great adventure, before derisively dismissing the idea. While he couldn’t prove it, he knew damn well how he had come to be a displaced soul sharing a body that was not his own with an alternate, teenage version of himself. It all had to do with the Time-stream Layering Effect that would sometimes occur during a Dimensional Divide, ancient magic colliding with the Killing Curse, releasing a blast of wild magic, and advanced Soul Magic, as not one, but two living horcruxes were created the fateful night that Voldemort had murdered his parents and had marked him as the child of the Prophecy.

 _Simple, so obvious._ Harry scowled, still irritated that he hadn’t figured out what had caused him to traverse dimensions over four days ago, when he had initially read about the Time-stream Layering Effect. What James had described of his counterpart’s nightmares had been so very similar to his own experience with slipping into Voldemort’s mind as he had slept at night, back before he had learn how to block the pathway that had existed between his and Voldemort’s souls with Occlumency. It shouldn’t have taken him reviewing the theories behind exorcisms, the aspects of horcrux creation, and the ritual arrays used in soul transfers to realize that his counterpart had somehow become a horcrux of his soul, just as he had been a horcrux of Voldemort’s soul.

As soon as Harry had realized that particularly crucial fact, however, the rest had all fallen into place. The killing curse striking him, but having no apparent effect on him, other than leaving a jagged scar on his forehead; nearly the entire second story of his parents cottage being blasted off with the rebound of Voldemort’s Killing Curse against the ancient magic of his mother’s sacrifice, yet he hadn’t been hit with so much as a splinter or been effect in the least by the explosion of wild magic, when Voldemort had been obliterated to a pile of ash; both of these things had bothered him significantly over the years, as his knowledge of magic expanded beyond spells and into understanding the very nature of the power that he and every other witch and wizard in the world commanded. Both phenomena were easily explained, he had come to realize, by the existence of alternate time-streams and a Dimensional Divide that had occurred that night, or possibly shortly before that night.

Harry had no clue exactly when the time-stream had fractured into its multiple possibilities, but he did know that the Time-stream Layering Effect had to have occurred during the Divide, as the newly formed time-streams couldn’t have been distinctly separated from each other for what he knew had to have occurred to have occurred. As for what had occurred, or rather, what he believed to have occurred: in the moment that Voldemort’s Killing Curse had struck him, the newly formed time-stream of his world had momentarily reconnected with the newly formed time-stream of this world, just as a shard of his soul had been ripped away from him by Voldemort’s Killing Curse and he had been shunted through the rift between the two newly formed time-streams. As the resulting explosion of wild magic blasted the second story of his parents’ cottage and obliterated Voldemort to a pile of ash, the shard of his soul that had been fractured by Voldemort’s Killing Curse traveled through the rift as well and attached itself to his counterpart, instead of reattaching to him. As the wild magic began to settle back in his time-stream and the two newly formed time-streams truly began to separate and become individual realties, he had been sucked back through the rift, as it healed, and placed back in his cot in his world, where the fractured shard of Voldemort’s soul had proceed to attach itself to his own raw and vulnerable soul.

It was just a theory and Harry couldn’t prove it, but he was certain that, at the very least, something to a similar effect had to have occurred. However, if there was one part of his theory that he knew without a doubt to be an absolute certainty, it was that his counterpart had been a horcrux of his soul. It was the only thing that explained the boy’s dreams and why he had been pulled from his world and into the boy, instead of dying as he should have. There wasn’t a lot of research regarding living horcruxes, and none regarding two souls as compatible and near identical as his and the boy’s souls were, but he was sure that it was possible for them to meddle together to become one consciousness, just as he was sure that the array before him would rip out his soul, while leaving the boy’s soul wholly intact.

 _If Neville had survived, would the Neville of this world eventually be faced with a similar choice?_ Harry wondered, before letting out a dry laugh. The war against Voldemort and the Dark Lord’s Dark Regime had already been won in his world. The choice wouldn’t have been even remotely similar.

Harry glared at the array, as if daring it to call him a coward for wanting to activate it. He wasn’t a coward. He had faced more than his fair share of horrors in his life, but that was just it: his life was over. He had died. He was dead, or should be dead. Though he understood what the boy wanted from him, understood that his abilities and knowledge would be invaluable to this world’s future, and understood that the boy was scared and felt powerless to stop what was coming on his own, he just couldn’t get past the fact that he had actually died, but had still managed to cheat death. He had lost count of how many times that he had nearly died over the course of his life, as well as how many time that he had actually wanted to die. To die…he _had_ died. This life that he was living, it wasn’t his own. It was the boy’s life, the boy’s existence that he was attached to…like a parasite, just as the shard of Voldemort’s soul had been a parasite existing by his continued existence.

Yet, his counterpart wanted to welcome him and fuse their existence in to one true existence.

 _Perhaps it is different, as I am him, in a way. We were once one and the same, before the time-stream split and life forged us into separate individuals,_ Harry attempted to reason, pursing his lips and staring down at the array pensively. His and his counterpart’s magic had fused already. The only thing keeping their awareness separate and the both of them sane was his constant employment of Occlumency to ensure that the boy’s mind remained locked behind his own. Though, he was confident that should he desire to do so, he would be more than capable of integrating the boy into his awareness and, in turn, integrating his awareness into the boy.

“We’d both still exist, but not exist,” Harry murmured, his brow furrowing. “We’d know who we had been, remember our lives, but neither one of us will be who we were. We’d be someone new, a blend of the both of us.”

If Harry were being entirely honest, the idea of taking on the role of an insignificant teenager and having many people that he would love and care about be, once more, under threat of the Dark Regime scared him just as much, if not more, as the prospects of fighting a bloody and all encompassing war that he had already experience in all its depravity and had fought eight long years, before finally bring about its end in his world. Too many had died – too many that he had cared about and too many that he hadn’t even known – which meant that there were far too many innocents to be saved in this world and that many would meet a similar fate to the one that they had met in his world. Bertha Jorkins already had. Really, things would be so much simpler for him – easier and less emotionally taxing – if he just activated the array and departed to the afterlife, as he should have departed from mortal existence five days ago. He had earned his peace, hadn’t he?

_‘What is right isn’t always easy. More often than not, it is the most difficult thing in the world, but we must hold onto our morality or we’ll have nothing left in the end, my boy. I fear there are still many hard days ahead of you. Do not turn your back on what you know it is right, Harry. Always remember that you are more than what you believe yourself to be. It isn’t only your magic that makes you strong; it’s your force of will and your sympathetic heart. Do not close your heart to the innocents in need. Do not bow because you fear that not to do so would be to break. You are better than that. Both you and I know it.’_

_Damn you, Dumbledore,_ Harry thought, cursing his old mentor to the fiery pits of Hades. Merlin knew how he wanted to walk away from this. One war was one too many for any man’s lifetime.

In a fit of frustration, and in resignation of the inevitable, Harry swiped up the ash wand that he had been unable to bring himself to pick up earlier. With a flick and a downward cut, the array spread out before him was ablaze with flames, quickly turning to a blackened pile of ash. While he knew that he could just reconstruct the array from his notes, he knew that he most likely wouldn’t be doing so.

“You know, I actually liked that table.”

Harry’s head snapped up and he raised the ash wand, ready to attack or defend, as his eyes scanned the darkness of the room for the intruder. Looking past the slowly dwindling flames to the door of the library, he saw a tall figure leaning lazily in the open doorframe. The man was easy enough to identify, especially in this house. He had seen his godfather stand exactly so many times before within the Grimmauld Place of his world. If the man was anything like his Sirius, he had to wonder just how long the man had actually been standing there, before the man had chosen to make his presence known.

“Where’s James?” Harry demanded, eyeing the man warily and forcing himself to put up a mental barrier, so to speak, between the reality of the man before him and his memories of his godfather.

“At work,” the man answered, stepping into the room with his hands held up to show that he didn’t have his wand in hand.

“How convenient,” Harry observed. Upon Sirius coming within a few feet of the table, he angled the ash wand purposefully. “That’s close enough.”

“He’s worried about you,” Sirius said, holding Harry’s gaze unyieldingly, yet respecting the boundary set and not pushing forward even another half step.

“He’d have known better than to send you to check up on me without him being present as well,” Harry said accusingly. James wasn’t an idiot. He knew from the way that the man had regarded him that the man knew that he was plenty dangerous. James wouldn’t have risked Sirius’s safety by sending the man alone.

“Are you going to put that out?” Sirius cast a quick glance at the still smoldering table.

“And take my eyes off you,” Harry smirked, “not a chance.”

“More than a little paranoid, aren’t you?” Sirius asked with his own smirk.

“How’d you find me?” Harry asked, ignoring the obvious answer to the man’s question.

“James isn’t the only one in the family that Harry has talked to about his dreams,” Sirius said meaningfully. “After…well, he told me about being here once. It took me and Remus a while to check several other more likely locations in trying to find you. But going on five days now, I figure that I might as well check here, even if you shouldn’t have been able to get past the wards without my knowledge.”

“My godfather willed the entire Black Estate to me.” Harry gave a one shouldered shrug, while keeping the ash wand trained steadily on Sirius. “It’s unfortunate that I never got to thank him. I never would have dared to delve into the Dark Arts without having a whole library of questionable books at my disposal. Hogwarts’s restricted section just really doesn’t cut it.” _Only one mention of a horcrux in passing with no actual information pertaining to what a horcrux is or how one is made._ “At least, not since Dumbledore took over for Dippet.”

“Mind if I ask what you were working on?” Sirius asked, nodding to the blackened surface of the worktable.

“Not that you’ll believe any of it, but my notes are over there,” Harry inclined his head to the end table between the two armchairs, where the leather bound journal containing his work so far was resting.

Cautiously and without turning his back on Harry, Sirius took the few steps over to the reading area and retrieved the journal, before bring it back over to the worktable, where the oil lamps would provide ample light for him to look over what the journal contained. He only paused long enough for Harry to give him approval to approach, as he crossed the previous boundary of approach that Harry had set.

Surprise flitted through Harry, as the man flipped the journal open atop the worktable to its very first page and began reading – reading, not just skimming.

Several minutes of silence passed, as Sirius read page after page and Harry watched him, not quite understanding why the man was even bothering reading over information and theories based upon his existence as an individual separate from his counterpart, when the man had made it more than clear that he believed him to be a symptom of his counterpart’s supposed illness and not an actual person. As the man continued read over his notes, not saying anything at all, Harry did not lower the ash wand even a fraction of an inch. Though he did not know or understand Sirius’s motivations for actually reading his work, he wasn’t about to be lured into a false sense of security. His days of being so easily played were long past. If the man thought that pretending to show an interest in his work would cause him to drop his guard, the man was sorely mistaken.

“James knows you’re here, doesn’t he?” Sirius asked eventually, not looking up from his reading.

Harry remained silent. James had done right by him. As he had kept his end of their deal and had sent an encrypted message after the first two day had past, the man had sent him back a letter telling him to do what he thought was best for him and Harry and hadn’t bothered him since. He wasn’t about to implicate the man. He suspected that Lily was already pissed enough at James, as he suspected that the man hadn’t listen to him and had pressed the issue of his existence.

“This is some pretty heavy stuff,” Sirius commented, seemly satisfied with Harry’s non-answer.

 _Yes, because one traverses space and time by casting lumos followed up by a summoning charm and attempting to apparate,_ Harry thought snidely. “All in five days’ work,” he said instead with a nonchalant air.

Sirius made a noise of disbelief. “You’d have to know your stuff to put all this together in five days. This is hardly the work of an amateur.”

“I never said that it was.” Harry grinned like the cat that had caught the canary, as the man looked up at him with wary, calculating eyes. “Though, it is interesting that you understand what you’re reading and are able to give such an assessment.”

“This is _my_ library,” Sirius retorted stiffly.

“As it is _mine_ where I come from,” Harry said, his grin widening. “And if you understand that,” he indicated to the open journal, “you understand just what it means that I passed through the wards here unhindered, don’t you? That’s why you’ve not brought up St. Mungo’s like you had planned to upon finding me and are instead reading over my research, no?”

“The access permissions can be simulated.” Sirius’s gaze traveled back down to the journal with uncertainty.

“But not easily,” Harry argued back. “It would take years for a warding system this complex.”

“He’s been exposed to me enough.” Sirius shook his head. “It’s possible that he did it unconsciously, a little at a time, enough that I didn’t notice. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“You have doubts and a reasonable explanation is before you.” Harry nodded to the journal. “Is it really so hard to believe that maybe I’m not crazy, you’re godson isn’t crazy, and James isn’t insane for believing us, when we say that we aren’t?”

“But dimension travel?” Sirius said, as if the concept was simply inconceivable.

Harry reached across the table and flipped the journal open to the portion that contained his theory on just how he might have done the inconceivable. “Read,” he practically growled at Sirius, his face mere inches from the man’s face and his eyes hard and commanding. If he could get Sirius to believe the truth, it would make his life just that much easier, especially with what all that needed to be done, if he was going to merge with the boy and attempt to get ahead of the war and stop Voldemort, before the Dark Regime’s reign spread any further than Britain. As he had discovered in his world, Voldemort already had European supporters. Everything had been lined up for Voldemort’s progressive takeover of Europe, during Voldemort’s long years of travel, prior to his return to Britain and application for the Defense Against the Dark Arts post at Hogwarts. All Voldemort had left to do was to establish a firm and indisputable base of control in the British Isles. With the fear created by his first rise to power and the Ministry’s stupidity in allowing Death Eaters to buy their way out of Azkaban and return to being influential members of society, the Dark Lord only had one man to kill and one prophecy to try to obtain, before that indisputable base of control would be establish by him and his Death Eaters in a less than a fortnight.

Just thinking about all that needed to be done had Harry stepping away from the worktable and pacing. The first step, of course, would be to successfully merge with the boy. But after that he would need to shut down the Kill Wards that had already been laid in Britain, or alter them somehow – the massive, all encompassing wards had cost more lives and caused more ambushes than opened battle, covert infiltrations, and narks had. He couldn’t risk Voldemort activating them early. He just couldn’t. All would be lost, if the wards went active, while they were still under Voldemort’s control.

There were also the horcruxes to deal with – three of which Harry didn’t know the location of, an additional two that needed to be confirmed, and two more in know locations that would be somewhat easy to access (or so he believed that they were). The Diary of Tom Riddle and the Locket of Salazar Slytherin, those were two horcruxes in his world that he should have known the location of had the events in this world not transpired differently from the events in his world. The Chalice of Helga Hufflepuff was the one horcrux that he had never learned the original location of in his world, having finally gotten his hands on the blasted thing in Slovakia. Where it was located in Britain was a complete mystery to him. As for the two that need to be confirmed, both were living horcruxes and would take delicate handling. The last two, on the other hand, he could probably obtain both in a day, if they were where he knew them to have been in his world. Though, the Ring of Peverell was a bit iffy at the moment, even if it was in the Gaunt’s hovel. If Voldemort was using Riddle Manor, as the Dark Lord had in his world during his forth year, it might end up being wiser to leave the Ring alone for the time being, as to not risk tipping off Voldemort, while he still had at least five other horcruxes of questionable accessibility.

Then there was the matter of him needing galleons, lots of galleons, lots of galleons preferably stored outside of Gringotts and in a secure, base location. An economic collapse due to the goblins being a self-preserving race of complete and utter bastards had been widely devastating to not only the Resistance, but to –

“No way in hell! Absolutely not!”

Harry halted in his pacing and looked to Sirius, only to find Sirius staring back at him with wide, startled eyes.

“You were going to try to exorcise yourself?” Sirius demanded fiercely, his eyes flashing dangerously.

Glancing to the journal quickly, Harry saw that Sirius had moved past his theory on his dimension travel and on to his plans on how he could to separate himself from Harry. “A controlled exorcism, combining a reverse soul transfer and –”

“No.” The word was firm and not open to any form of rebuttal.

“What?” Harry asked, his brow furrowing with a combination of shock and confusion.

“You do this,” Sirius jabbed his finger angrily at the journal pages, “you die.”

“You know, you lot really need to get over that,” Harry said exasperatedly. He had already argued hours on end with his counterpart and, after arguing hours on end with his counterpart, he felt like he had also argued hours on end with James, as his counterpart had never failed to bring ‘their father’, as the boy had begun to refer to James, into the conversation. “It’s my soul –”

“No,” Sirius said once more in clear refusal, his eyes fierce and determined. “I don’t give two shits what you consider to be your rights regarding your soul. I won’t let you do it. If I’m reading all this right, you’re my godson, truly my _godson!_ I held you right after you were born. Do you understand?”

Harry drew a sharp breath and his heart tripped over itself in his chest, as the man’s words hit him and comprehension quickly followed. “I burned the array,” he managed to get past his suddenly parched throat in a whisper. He had lost his chance with his godfather. His godfather had died seven years ago. _No, no, no,_ his mind chanted, refusing to allow the man before him to be the same man who held him after he was born, as long buried emotions threatened his control. He couldn’t accept it. He just couldn’t. He had already dealt with the man’s death: the guilt, the pain, the remorse. Yet, the man was that man. According to his theory, the man was truly one and the same. The man was his godfather, who had held him, and was now standing before him, alive and vibrant with indignation at what he had planned to do. They had been separated, when the time-stream split, but now…

“And after I show this to James,” Sirius looked down at the journal with disgust, before looking back up with a dare in his eyes that challenged Harry to try and counter his decision, “I’m burning it.”

“If I don’t use that array, Sirius…” Harry choked out, still finding the ramifications of the man’s words hard to deal with, but needing Sirius to understand that things weren’t so simple. He and his counterpart would be forever changed. The array would be the only way that James and Sirius would ever get his counterpart back.

“You and Harry won’t exist, but you will,” Sirius said confidently, his face earnest and filled with understanding. “You’d know who you were. You’d just be a version of the both of you, affected by both of your memories, yet still Harry Potter, _my_ godson.”

“So, you believe us?” Harry couldn’t help but asked, as the man stared at him in a way that no one had in a very long time. People had gotten over the need to protect him years ago.

“Yes, Harry,” Sirius said softly. “I believe you.”


	10. Reset

Nimble fingers turned ink riddled pages; leather binding propped against elegantly crossed legs; head cocked slightly to the right; brow furrowed in concentration; gray eyes passed back and forth, taking in haphazardly scrawled script. The oil lamp set upon the end table beside the armchair that the dark haired man was sitting in cast a contrast of gold hue and elongated shadows across the man’s lean figure, accentuating his aristocratic features and providing ample light for the man to read by.

Harry’s gaze took in the subtle emotion that would briefly morph Sirius’s features, as the man reviewed his notes more closely than the man had done before. The fractional upturn of the corners of the man’s lips, when the man found something to be pleasing; the barely noticeable nod, when the man agreed with something that he had written; the hardening of the man’s eyes, when the man came across a reference to something that was no doubt nefarious in nature; nor did he miss the slight hesitation that caused the man’s hands to tremble and fumble noticeably at the pages, when the man found something to be disturbing, or that the man would pale and his lips would pull tight into a scowl for the very same reason.

“Not that I necessarily mind, but is there a reason for all the staring?” Sirius asked into the silence of the library and looked over to Harry, who was seated on the far end of the sofa opposite him with his elbows resting on his knees and his eyes trained intently upon him.

“I’m attempting to assimilate and accept that you are alive,” Harry stated simply.

“And how is that going?” Sirius asked with interest.

“No worse than attempting to accept that I am a scrawny 14 year old for a second time in my life,” Harry grimaced. “Physically, at least.”

“Not well then.” Sirius smiled sympathetically. “How old were – are you…mentally, I mean?”

Harry sighed and ran a hand through ‘his’unruly hair. The act was one of habit and now served as a very predominate reminder that the body that he occupied wasn’t the one that truly belonged to him. For the last four years he had kept his hair trimmed short, as conditions had made his messy strands a pain to manage, especially with his hair grown past his shoulders, like it had been prior to him having had to cut it. Though, admittedly, he did prefer his hair long, despite having kept it short – a fair bit longer than his counterpart’s hair currently was, yet not so long that reached anywhere near his mid-back.

“I had turned 23 about a month back,” Harry said, answering Sirius’s question.

“Nine years,” Sirius said pensively, as if considering what nine years into the future might look like.

“You have no idea,” Harry said with a gravity that had Sirius looking at him with deep concern. _You don’t want to know,_ he thought, as Sirius held his gaze with unmasked questions alight in his eyes. _You don’t want to know the detrimental difference those nine years had on my world’s future and could have on yours. You don’t want to know just how far human depravity can go._

As Sirius opened his mouth to ask a question that Harry knew with certainty that he wouldn’t be willing to give an answer to, the man’s mouth snapped back shut. In a single, fluid motion Sirius stood, closed the journal that had been open upon his lap, and set the journal aside on the corner of the end table.

“James?” Harry asked knowingly.

Sirius nodded. “I’ll bring him up,” the man announced needlessly, before leaving the library with swift footfalls.

Harry let out a slow breath, as he heard Sirius descending the stairs. With Sirius out of the room, he felt like he could breathe again. “Fuck,” he whispered to the empty library and hung his head, his shoulders hunching. He had seen death - had been its executioner and its prey – and had grieved for many losses in his life. Yet, through it all, it had been his godfather’s death that had affected him on a deeply personal level that all but a few other deaths had done, and none so severely. To see the man alive in this world brought up old memories and emotions that he’d rather not explore and had thought that he had dealt with long ago.

The night that Sirius had died in his world had been one of the most emotionally painful nights of Harry’s life. He had lost something that night and not just his godfather, but a piece of himself. The naïve boy that had thought that maybe, just maybe he would one day get to be normal and have a family of his own, like everybody else; the naïve boy that had still believed that adults, like Sirius and Tonks, were strong protectors and couldn’t possibly fall to the enemy’s wand; the naïve boy that had had the naïve hope that it wouldn’t come down to him and Voldemort in the end, despite all the evidence to the contrary… that the naïve boy; he had died that night along with his loving godfather, never to be seen or heard from again. Sirius’s death hadn’t been just the loss of the only man that he had ever remembered viewing as a parent of sorts, but the loss of the last vestiges of the child within him that he had been so desperately clinging to. If asked when Porteur Demort first began to take form within him, he would say that Porteur was born into his infancy at the precise second that Sirius Black slipped through the Veil of Death in the Department of Mysteries of the British Ministry of Magic.

 _You’re dwelling,_ Harry chastised himself, knowing better than to allow himself to brood about what he could not change. _There is only the future and what one does with it,_ he asserted his motto firmly within his mind. It was this world that had yet to know the terror of Voldemort’s second rise to power that he needed to focus on. It was this world full of innocents that his counterpart had essentially argued for him to stay and protect. It was this world with an _alive_ Sirius and an entire family of Potters that he would be joining, should James release him from his current mission objective in agreement with his counterpart and Sirius’s stance on the matter of his continued existence.

Hearing the two distinctly different, yet somewhat similar sets of footsteps ascending the grand staircase and voices approaching the library, Harry pulled himself from his thoughts with resolution set within his mind and heart. As in his world, where Sirius was dead and he had had to deal with that fact; in this world, Sirius was alive and he was just going to have to accept that the man walked, talked, and breathed, as a living person ought to.

Harry looked around towards the library door just in time to see the silver, snake head that was the doorknob turn – the light from the lone oil lamp that resided on the worktable reflecting off of its scaled surface – and the door push open. Sirius entered the library first, followed by James, who was carrying a paper sack that smelled absolutely mouthwatering.

James smiled upon catching sight of Harry, the man’s worn features transforming from a state of anxiety to relief in a matter of seconds. “Tom’s beef stew?” he asked uncertainly, lifting the sack the slightest bit in offering.

Harry could not have prevented the moan of delight from slipping past his lips, if he had even had the presence of mind to. He was up off of the sofa and taking the sack over to the recently repaired worktable, before either James or Sirius could take an additional step into the room. _Six, seven years since I last had Tom’s stew – possibly longer?_ he questioned, while removing the three bowls of beef stew and dumplings that were under a stasis charm from the sack. He set the three bowls out on the table, conjured the necessary silverware, and eagerly pulled up a chair.

“Mmm…” Harry closed his eyes, savoring the burst of beefy flavor and spices washing across his taste buds, upon taking his first bite of the steaming sustenance. “Tom always did make the best stew,” he said appreciatively, as he opened his eyes and looked to James and Sirius, who had yet to move and were merely watching him curiously. “Sit, eat,” Harry commanded, indicating to the two bowls of stew set before the empty chairs across from him with his spoon.

As the two men did as directed, both continued to watch Harry proceed to take another bite.

The silence that followed James and Sirius joining Harry at the worktable was one only broken by the muffled sounds of chewing and a spoon periodically scraping against the basin of one of their bowls, as well as a few murmurs indicating each man’s enjoyment of the meal.

“Sirius said that you have news,” James prompted, after a short while, when most of the stew had been eaten.

Harry rested his spoon against the side of his near empty bowl and looked up at James, who sat directly opposite him. “I’ve located Harry, as well as formulated a way to remove myself from him and restore him to his previous state of being.”

“ _But,_ ” Sirius interjected, setting down his spoon and looking to James as well. His eyes and his tone were opposing. “If he goes through with the rite, he’ll _die_.”

“ _Thank you_ , Sirius,” Harry said, glaring at said man and ignoring the way James’s eyes had brightened with hope, only to dull mere seconds later. “I was getting to that.”

“I think I would like for you to start at the beginning,” James said to Harry, while forcibly keeping his voice calm. “When I last heard from you, you were working on figuring out how dimension travel was even possible. If you could tell me where my son is and –”

“Harry’s safe,” Harry assured and reached up to tap the side of head. “He’s right here…with me.”

“With you?” A perplexed look knitted James’s brow.

Harry nodded. “The way that he explains –”

“You’ve talked to him?” James leaned forward in his chair, his eyes keen and demanding. “How is he?”

“In a constant state of being ticked at me, or otherwise fascinated by me and enthusiastic about actually being able to speak with me,” Harry said truthfully. “As for him being ‘with me’, I should probably rephrase that and say that he’s my host and I’m his guest. The way that he explains what he is experiencing is that it’s like he’s in one of his dreams, only the dream hasn’t ended and I’ve taken control of his body, instead of the dream being set back in my world with me in control of my own body.”

“So you’re both…?” James looked Harry up and down meaningfully.

Harry nodded.

“Is that even –” James glowered and his eyes narrowed at Harry in scrutiny, as if he might find some visible abnormality resulting from the cohabitation of two souls within a single body. “That’s not possible…is it? That shouldn’t be possible.”

“To be honest, if I weren’t a master Occlumens and hadn’t instinctually taken control of the situation, this body would have gone into an epileptic fit the moment that I invaded it. Two souls coexisting within the same body isn’t possible, no,” Harry said in answer to the man’s staggered question. “The clash of commands coming from two conscious and definitively separate entities within a single physical form would be enough to cause insanity at best and death at the worst.”

“As long as you stay in control, you’ll both be fine?” James asked, no longer even attempting to hide or contain the worry afflicting him.

“As long as I remain in conscious control, I can maintain the barrier between our minds, keeping us both safe and sane,” Harry said confidently.

“So Harry is safe?” James sought confirmation.

“As safe as I am,” Harry told the man.

Upon James looking sideways at him, Sirius nodded, giving his own confirmation. “I’ve looked over his research and know a bit about what he’s talking about. They’re both just fine, as they currently are. We’d know, if they weren’t.”

“You said something about a way to remove yourself?” James looked back to Harry. Though he appeared to be convinced of his son’s safety, his question was hesitant and filled with uncertainty.

Harry nodded. “It would essentially be a controlled exorcism aimed at a specific target rather than a general targeting of a foreign presence. I’ve combined a reverse soul transfer array with one of the older exorcism rites. The array that I’ve formulate is as foolproof as it can be. Once the magic is activated, only my memories along with my affiliated soul will be attacked, differentiating myself from Harry’s soul and memories and allowing me to be recognized as a foreign presence. Though I’ve made it as safe as I can for Harry, he still might feel a bout of pain, when the portion of my magic that went into binding with his magic is ripped away. And as Sirius was so quick to point out,” he said, before Sirius could interject and point out the cost of using the array for a second time, “the end result will not only be your son’s individual existence being restored, but my death.”

James looked distinctly uncomfortable and lowered gaze to the table, his hope and desire for his son’s return causing him shame.

“I wasn’t even going to ask,” Harry said, his tone cautious, yet gentle. “I was going to activate the array and be done with it. In my opinion, my soul is mine to do with as I please. However, Harry has requested something of me, and while it’s not something that I want to do necessarily or something that would be ideal for any of us, I can’t ignore his request.”

James looked up at Harry, his eyes torn by internal debate.

“While I can remove myself from your son and allow him to return to his normal life,” Harry said carefully, “that isn’t the only option. It doesn’t have to be me or him, James. If you allow it, I can merge with Harry.”

“Merge?” James frowned, looking for all the world as if the concept was beyond him.

“What would happen is that I would take your son’s memories into my mind, while passing my memories into his mind in a constant flow. I’d have to do it in a quick, controlled stream without giving my mind or his mind time to identify the memories as being someone else’s memories and not our individual own. As our minds begin to reflect each other, our souls will become reflections of each other as well. Our magic has already fused, so it shouldn’t take much, as the only thing that truly defines us at the moment are our memories. Once that barrier is gone, by the very nature of existence, our souls will desire to return to being a single soul, fused as one to become a single entity experiencing its own unique existence.” Harry indicated to his counterpart’s body. “We’d retain who we were, though the person that would inhabit this body would not be the person that I am before you or the person you remember your son to be. He would be a blend of the both of us.”

“I thought you said that you had to maintain the barrier between your minds or you could both go insane or die,” James said with confusion.

“I do,” Harry affirmed. “However, I’m not talking about just chucking aside the barrier between our minds and allowing our minds to smash together. What I’m proposing to do is something that few other practitioners of the Mind Arts would even begin to consider, let alone be capable of. I’m talking about a controlled and steady exchange of memories to the very depths of the subconscious and reaching beyond the mind to touch the soul. I use the word merge in a very contextual sense, Mr. Potter.”

“Harry wants this?” James asked, despite looking as if he hadn’t quite comprehended what Harry had just told him. “He wants to merge with you?”

“He is very against my death,” Harry said earnestly, while holding James’s speculative gaze.

James nodded, accepting the answer without even a fraction of a doubt.

“Though now is not the time to discuss it…” Harry glanced briefly to Sirius, before returning his focus to James. “Harry has requested that I stay so that our merged-self can work towards preventing what happened in my world from happening here in your world. There are already several likenesses between our worlds that are quite troubling.” Harry held up a hand, suspending James and Sirius’s questions on the subject. “Now is not the time, but I just thought that you,” he looked directly at James, “would at least like to know your son’s reasons for wanting to merge with me. Not only has he become attached to me over the years, he’s scared of this world’s possible future and with good reason.”

“And this decision – what happens to both you and him – is in mine to make?” James stated with only a hint of a question in his voice.

“While I would like to tell you to take the time that you need,” Harry gave James an apologetic look, “the longer that a decision isn’t made, the more difficult it will be to remove myself from your son, if that is your final decision. Every second I remain here, is one more second my soul has to get comfortable and connect within your son’s body.”

“If I decide on the rite,” James drew an unsteady breath and let it out, “will you still provide the information that you promised me back at the house?”

Sirius looked to James, surprised by the question, before looking to Harry expectant of an explanation.

Harry reached into his pant pocket and pulled out a small glass vial with a silvery substance inside. He held it up, but made no move to give it to James. “I made a memory to explain what you’ll see, as well as organized the memories in order of importance. Harry was to give it you, after I had gone. I figured this would make things easier and perhaps more believable than writing it all out. Dumbledore would most likely be more than happy to allow you to use his pensieve, especially if you asked him to join you in viewing the memories. Trust me. To do so would be less traumatic than administering them into your mind directly.”

“If I decide on the merge?” James questioned.

Harry pocketed the vial. “The information that I deem important will be passed on to you, when it becomes necessary for you to know it. Otherwise, what I know will stay locked securely within my mind. Harry and I are in agreement on this. While he would be powerless to do anything about the events to come and would need you and Dumbledore to at least try to avoid the catastrophe of my world’s war, should he and I merge the more effective thing would be to keep the information to ourselves and act on it as we deem fit, as it is quite sensitive. If Voldemort even hears so much as a whisper of it, the future of all of Europe would be at risk.”

“I know you said now was not the time,” Sirius began, looking from Harry to James and back to Harry with uncertainty, “but will you answer me one question?”

Harry motioned for Sirius to ask what he wanted to ask.

“As Voldemort is currently presumed dead and has been for the last twelve, almost thirteen years, how long do we have before he returns to the status of alive and this war that happened in your world breakouts here in our world?” Sirius’s eyes bore into Harry intently.

“A little less than a year,” Harry said solemnly. “If events follow the events of my world, by the end of June, he’ll have restored himself to a body.”

Sirius sat back in his chair, visible anxiety straining his face and tensing his muscles. “You won your war?” he asked stiffly.

Harry nodded. “It wasn’t a true victory, considering all that had been lost over the course of the war, but we did win in the end. Voldemort was dead, we were rounding up the last of his followers in the British Isles, and Eastern Europe was in the process of rebuilding, while much of Western Europe was assessing damages and preparing to do the same. I was actually supposed to meet with leaders of several nations to decide the fate of the nations whose governments had supported Voldemort from the start of his campaign for power…yesterday, I do believe.”

“I need to take a walk,” James said, standing abruptly.

“Would you like me to come with you?” Sirius offered, looking up at James with concern.

James hesitated, casting a brief glance at Harry, before nodding in answer to Sirius’s question.

“The journal stays here,” Harry said firmly, as Sirius stood instantly at James’s acceptance of company and took a step towards the reading area, the end table with the journal of his research in particular.

“Your _father_ ,” Sirius stressed the word with complete seriousness, upon turning back to face Harry, “has the right to know what those pages contain. You’ve told him some of it, but not all of it. He deserves to know the truth, Harry.”

“Sirius, he’s not…” James began to say, but trailed off, upon realizing that Harry was merely staring as Sirius, as Sirius stared back at him, not correcting Sirius or protesting that calling him, James, his father was disrespectful to his parents’ deaths in his world, nor remarking about the use of his given name over the use of Porteur.

“Very well,” Harry said, calmly holding Sirius’s unyielding gaze, and tilted his head to the journal in permission. Sirius was right, of course. James had every right to know what he had discovered in regard to what had caused him to travel dimensions, as well as know about the research that he had done, while trying to finding a way to restore his counterpart. He hadn’t deemed the information relevant to James’s decision regarding his and his counterpart’s future existence and had figure on telling the man what the journal contained later on, when time wasn’t crucial, or that Sirius would do so, once he had activated the array that he had designed and was gone from the world – though he seriously doubted that the latter would occur. Sirius, however, seemed to believe that the information was of great importance and that James need to know it now, not later. _Not to mention, he’s right in that the same principle that applies to him, applies to James._ _For at least the first year of my life, our time-streams were one and the same, making James just as much my father, as the James Potter that I knew to be my father in my home world was. Only, like this Sirius, this James Potter is alive,_ he thought with a weary sigh.

“We’ll be back within the hour,” James said, giving Harry an odd look, as Sirius grabbed the journal off the end table.

“I want your decision by then,” Harry said, looking up at James. “I want this done and over with tonight, whichever way it goes.”

“Of course,” James said, the conflict consuming him flashing across his face.

Without an additional word exchanged between them, James left the library with Sirius trailing after him. Upon the door clicking closed behind the two men, Harry stood and stretched. His counterpart was right about James. The man was far less ruthless than he had estimated the man to be. He fully expected the father to return well before the hour was up, resolved that he and his counterpart ought to merge. Sirius on the other hand… Well, Sirius had certainly been a surprise. The version of Sirius that he had known in his world had condemned the Dark Arts and had sworn quite vehemently that he would have nothing to do with them. This Sirius, however, had obviously studied the Dark Arts and had put an effort into studying them, as the man knew and understood far too much to have just perused a few Dark Arts books over the years. It was a curious discovery.

 _Did he change his opinion of the Dark Arts from his Gryffindor youth in this world? Or had my parents’ murders and his time in Azkaban in my world caused his deep hatred of the Dark Arts?_ Harry pondered, as he vanished the bowls of stew and set about cleaning up the books that he had managed to scatter all across the library.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

“You’re certain?” Harry asked, looking up at James from his position on the sofa, where he had ended up sitting down and reading avidly, upon getting distracted by one of the books that he had been in the process of putting away not five minutes after James and Sirius had left. It was now over a half hour later. He had been about to begin a second chapter, when the two men had returned and interrupted his submersion.

“Yes,” James said, his bespectacled, hazel eyes firm with resolve, as he looked down to Harry from where he stood a mere few feet from the sofa. “I can’t ask you to…sacrifice yourself. I just can’t. Everything else could’ve been managed. Harry would’ve gotten over you being gone. It might’ve taken a while but he would have. He’d have understood that – that the way you’ve – the fact that he was –”

“My horcrux,” Harry supplied, when James failed to complete the sentence.

James cringed. “Yes, that. He’d have understood that it was wrong. And the war. We could have managed it or tried our best to, at the very least. We would have had your memories. We’d have fought just as we had thirteen years ago. We were able to hold Voldemort off then. We’d have done well enough with your memories now, I’m sure. But I can’t ask you, my son, to die just so that I can have a version of you that I raised and love. I –” he swallowed the word. “You don’t care, I know. You probably don’t feel that you should care. I get that you’ve had a hard life…that you’re…” he trailed off and sighed, looking flustered. Taking a step forward, he closed the distance between him and Harry and bent down directly in front of where Harry was seated to better meet him eye to eye. “I don’t know you, you understand?”

“Nor I you, James,” Harry reminded the man.  

“I’m sorry for that.” James looked upon Harry with true heartbreak, his eyes searching Harry’s face but seemingly unable to find what he desired. He hung his head, disappointed. “Don’t mess up. Please.”

Harry set aside the book that he had been reading and leaned forward. He grabbed the man’s right hand and encased it with both his hands, before giving it a firm squeeze, as he would do for any of his comrades experiencing emotional turmoil. James stared down at their entangled hands, as if he couldn’t understand why the gesture had been extended to him.

“I won’t mess up,” Harry promised compassionately, causing James to start and look back up at him. “I know what I’m doing, James. This isn’t goodbye for any of us.”

“How long?” James asked, the words strained and barely rising above a whisper.

“24 hrs at the most,” Harry said, giving James’s hand another soothing squeeze, while maintaining eye contact with the man.

It took Harry a few more minutes to convince the worried father that everything was going to be fine, before the man reluctantly stepped back and joined Sirius over at the worktable, where the other man had quietly setup a game of chess – a silent declaration that neither man was going anywhere anytime soon. Seeing this, Harry closed the book beside him that he had been reading and set it on the floor.

“Don’t try to wake me,” Harry said, looking over at the two men. He pinned each man with a grave look that communicated just how important it was that they didn’t disturb him. “I don’t care if the house is burning down or if I appear to be having a rough go of it, do _not_ wake me.”

“Got it,” Sirius said, as James nodded his understanding as well.

Harry eyed the two men a moment longer, before lying down on the sofa and making himself comfortable. He closed his eyes and plunged his mind into a subconscious state, allowing the sleep that he had kept at bay to claim him in a matter of seconds.

_“Yes!” The shout greeted him, just as a teenage boy clobbered him._

_Porteur grunted at the impact and tactfully untangled himself from the boy. “Harry,” he greeted, as the boy spun away from him in a whirlwind of motion and energy._

_“I knew you wouldn’t do it!” the boy declared with a wide grin set upon his face, as he went about practically bouncing around the Gryffindor Common Room in his excitement. “I knew it. I knew it. I knew it! I knew that you’d see reason and listen to Dad in the end. I knew it! I so so soooo knew it!”_

_“Are you going to continue bragging, or do you want to do this?” Porteur asked, glaring at the gloating boy._

_The boy ceased his jumping about and turned to him, sticking out his tongue and crossing his arms over his chest._

_“Real mature,” Porteur remarked, his glare not lessening in the slightest._

_“Fine,” the boy said exasperatedly. “But when we merge, we’re going to have fun. We’re not going to read boring, informative books all day and we’re not going to curse people for no apparent reason and –”_

_“That isn’t how this works.” Porteur interrupted, cutting the boy off before the boy began to ramble. “Who we become…he will do whatever it is that he want to do. We will have no conscious control over him. We’ll only be memories. Now, come here.”_

_“Is this going to hurt?” the boy asked, suddenly nervous, as he crossed the Common Room back over to Porteur, who was standing by the great hearth as usual, with shuffled steps and tense shoulders._

If you continue to be a pain in the ass, I’ll make it hurt, _Porteur thought tetchily, despite knowing that it was a wholly empty threat and that the boy was done bragging. “It might hurt a bit, but we really won’t feel much pain inside our minds as we are.”_

_“That’s good,” the boy said, sounding relieved. Upon stepping up to Porteur, he looked up at the older version of himself. “What is it exactly that I have to do?”_

_“Nothing,” Porteur said, reaching out to steady the boy with his left hand, while placing his index and middle fingers of his right hand under the boy’s chin. He tilt the boy’s head back a fraction of an inch to gain better eye contact. “Just don’t move and don’t resist. Okay?”_

_“Okay,” the boy said meekly._

_With the rules of engagement set, Porteur reached out towards the boy’s mind, searching for a weak spot in the barrier between their minds that he could exploit without bring the whole barrier crashing down around them._


	11. Waking

His head hurt. That was as far as he got in accessing his waking condition, before he was forced to roll sideways on the soft surface that he was lying upon and spew his gut over the edge and onto the floor below. He let out a pitiful moan and tucked his burning forehead into the crook of his arm, attempting to shield his eyes from the light assaulting his closed eyelids. His head didn't just hurt, he realized. No, his brain was practically pounding against his skull with all its might and demanding it be released from its confines. His stomach rolled a second time, as a particularly jarring wave of pain punctuated through his cranium and caused his entire being to wither and contract in response.

"Harry?" a male voice asked urgently, followed by the shifting of floorboards and the sounds of someone kneeling down beside him.

He flinched, as a hand came to rest upon his back. The pressure of the hand lessened the slightest bit, but did not disappear.

"Harry?"

The man's worried, yet hopeful tone caused him turn his head in the direction of the man's voice and valiantly squint his eyes open. Gold-hued light flooded his vision through his eyelashes, instantly sending his head into a painful, stationary spin. He ignored the increase of nausea and the fresh pain shooting from his optic nerves to his abused and throbbing brain and forced his vision to focus on the figure hovering over him.

"Harry?" a man with sharp, angular features, a mess of black hair atop his head, and square rimmed glasses shielding his hazel eyes asked, now sounding more concerned than he had before.

He blinked at the man, finding the name 'Harry' to be very familiar, as well as finding the man to be just as familiar to him, though he wasn't sure why. Delving into his mind, despite the mother of all migraines afflicting, he attempted to locate the name 'Harry' and the man in his memories. And just like that, it was as if a dam broke. Memory after memory flooded his awareness – two lives set side by side – two lives aligned harmoniously with smooth and flawless transitions from one lifetime of memories to the next – two lives that truly couldn't have been any more different from one another, yet both were his and he had lived and experienced both in their totality. There was no confusion, no warring of emotions or thoughts within him, as the memories continued to rush back to him. He knew his past with perfect clarity. He knew his present, as well as what could be and what needed to be done, with that same perfect clarity. Most importantly, he knew who he was. He wasn't two separate Harry Potters. He was a single being: Harold 'Harry' James Potter, son of James Charlus Potter and Lily Annabel Potter née Evans, brother of Bethany Laurel Potter, and godson of Sirius Orion Black.

It wasn't until the memories stopped and the present once more asserted its precedence over the past that Harry realized that he had been screaming and had turned back into the sofa to press his forehead back into the crook of his arm with his eyes firmly squeezed shut.  _So much for only a bit of pain,_  he grumbled mentally, as he gasped for breath and winced at the raw feeling now possessing his throat. He had been lying to himself in more ways than one, when he had assured himself that merging his existence would only hurt a bit. Sure, as long as he had remained unconscious and within his mind, he hadn't really felt the physical strain of having a constant flow of concentrated magical energy ripping through his divided conscious and forging it into a single awareness. Being awake and facing the aftermath, however, was a whole other matter.

"Harry!"

The shaking of his shoulder was insistent and his father's voice was near frantic.

"I'm all right," Harry said, forcing the words to form and become vocalized. He wasn't exactly 'all right' so to speak, but he would be, and that was what his father truly wanted to know. "I could do with a headache reliever though." Though he'd rather use Occlumency to block the pain, he knew better than to attempt it. With his mind still afflicted by the trauma of merging his two selves, using even the smallest amount of magic, with his mind as its conduit, to alter his perception of pain would only lead to greater pain, not less.

"A fever reducer and a stomach soother as well," James murmured, as his hands moved to feel the back of Harry's neck and to touch the teen's forehead.

"Just the headache reliever," Harry refuted, rolling carefully back on to his back, while keeping his eyes shut. His brain did not need optical stimuli at the moment. The light from the oil lamps that was reddening his closed eyelids was bad enough. "I don't want to be so doped up that I can't think straight."

There was more shifting of floorboards. Then a hand that was colder than James's hands pressed against Harry's forehead.

"I only have a fever and an upset stomach due to my head attempting to murder me," Harry said in an attempt to reason with the two men, as he knew that if his godfather agreed with his father's assessment, they'd force the potions down his throat, despite his unwillingness to consume them. Considering that he was certain that just sitting up would send him toppling over due to a severe lack of any semblance of equilibrium, he'd say that their chances of success were exceedingly high at the moment.

Harry couldn't help but whimper, as Sirius's cool hand withdrew from his forehead. He settled quickly, however, as a conjured washcloth that was damp and even colder than Sirius's hand was pressed to his forehead mere seconds later. It didn't do much for his gut wrenching, skull splitting headache, but it sure felt good against his blazing skin. The fact that the cloth slipped over his eyes only served to make his condition all the more bearable.

"If Mayra were here, she'd put him under until his fever goes down."

Harry opened his mouth, inclined to protest, but stopped himself, upon quickly realizing that sleeping off the pain would be preferable to suffering through it. "Sounds like a plan."

The two men, who had taken up a whispered conversation that Harry hadn't quite been paying attention to, ceased their quiet exchange.

"You want to be knocked out?" Sirius asked for clarification, sounding bewildered.

"It's better than being conscious," Harry said, while reaching up to press the damp washcloth more firmly to his forehead. It had already absorbed a good amount of heat. "My head is killing me. Either get me a headache reliever or knock me out. I  _really_  don't care which."

"I'll be back," Sirius said softly and gave Harry's shoulder a comforting squeeze.

As Harry listened to his godfather's receding footsteps, he felt his father refresh the charms on the washcloth. He let his hand fall back at his side with a sigh. "Thanks."

"I know it probably doesn't help much," James said sympathetically, "but it might keep your fever somewhat in check, until Sirius gets back."

"Did it take me the full 24 hours?" Harry asked, wondering just how long it had taken to consolidate his existence.

"A little over," James said. "Another ten minutes and you would have hit the 26 hour mark."

Harry hummed. 24 hours hadn't been a bad estimate. He probably should have told his father 30 hours just to be on the safe side, though, so his father wouldn't have had to worry. He could tell by the strain in his father's voice that the last 26 hours hadn't been kind to the man. "Are you okay?" he asked with concern.

James gave a shaky laugh that sounded somewhat forced. "As long as you're all right, I'll be just fine."

Silence fell between father and son. Harry focused on his breathing, the steady pound of his heartbeat, anything but the pain assaulting his head.

"It did work, didn't it?" James asked tentatively, his voice barely above a whisper.

Harry reached up and pushed the washcloth back from his eyes. He winced at the light reddened his closed eyelids, once more, before pressing onward and fully opening his eyes. Intense pain pierced his cranium and a wave of nauseas churned his stomach at the optical exposure. By sheer willpower, he endured both sensations and looked to his father. "It worked," he said firmly.

James held Harry's pain-clouded gaze for a moment, before nodding, his face an indecipherable mask and his eyes gleaming ever so slightly behind his glasses. "That's good."

Harry offered his hand to the man with a hint of uncertainty. He knew his feeling and his thoughts, but his father had been hesitant about the merge. With the man's face so closed off, he wasn't sure how his father felt about him now that he was neither the 13, almost 14 year old that the man had come to know, nor the 23 year old who went by the name of Porteur, who his father had silently disapproved of and had struggled to trust.

"I love you, Dad," Harry said with open honesty, hoping that his sentiments would be return.

James hesitated for only a moment, before taking Harry's offered hand in his right hand. "I love you too, son."

Harry's smiled ever so slightly, relief washing through him. "We're okay?"

"We're okay," James confirmed and did his best to give Harry a reassuring grin.

It would take time, Harry knew. The persona of Porteur was a large part of him, just as his teenage self was a large part of him. He and his father were going to have to adjust and make compromises, if they were to retain the close relationship that they had shared. He could see it in his father's eyes that the man knew as much as well, but was willing to make an effort all the same.

When Sirius returned several minutes later, Harry consumed the multitude of potions that his godfather all but ordered him to take. Upon swallowing down a vial of Dreamless Sleep, he welcomed the relief that the potions offered and allowed unconsciousness to have him.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

When Harry next woke, he immediately noticed that he was very warm and very comfortable. As he roused from the depths of blessed darkness, he yawned and habitually scrubbed the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes. Upon opening his eyes to world around him, he stiffened and blinked a few times, while slowly taking in his altered surroundings. He was no longer sprawled out on the sofa in the Black Library, though it didn't seem that he had been removed from 12 Grimmauld Place entirely. The dark wood floors and the faded and pealing wallpaper on the walls were recognizable enough to him as belonging to the ancestral home of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, as were the overall dark atmosphere of the home and the just noticeable stench in the air.

Sunlight streamed into the unfamiliar bedroom through a lone window that had its curtains drawn back and cascaded across the floor, creeping around a dark green, wingback armchair and cutting in a bright strip across the foot of the roomy four-poster bed that Harry was lying in. Harry pushed back the finely embroidered comforter covering him and sat up. For a brief second, he experienced the dizzying sensation of a head rush, as he adjusted from lying horizontal to sitting up vertical. With careful movements, as to not provoke another head rush, he moved to the edge of the bed and swung his feet over the side. He grimaced as his skin came in contact with the cool floorboards.

With a quick glance about the bedroom, Harry located the rucksack that he had brought with him to Grimmauld Place resting on an antique sideboard to his left. The shoes that he had been wearing were set before the sideboard, while the clothes that he had been wearing were neatly stacked on the sideboard next to the rucksack. Getting up out of bed fully, he stretched. He couldn't remember the last time that he had felt so well rested. It had definitely been months in this world, years in the other world.

With at first careful steps that progressed to a normal speed, he crossed over to the sideboard and exchanged the flaming red night robe that he had been dressed in for his familiar clothes and shoes. Once he was dressed, he looked to the nightstand beside the bed for his wand. Not seeing it, he turned to his rucksack. His ash wand was tucked inside, resting atop the change of clothes that he had brought.

"Still a piece of shit, I see." Harry glared mutinously at the wand, as it failed to yield properly to his magic, yet still performed the mouth refreshing spell that he had cast upon himself.

Deciding that getting a new wand had just been labeled 'urgent' and moved to the top of his list of things to do, Harry slipped the ash wand between his belt and the waistband of his trousers, as the tan trousers lacked pockets on all fronts.  _Jeans_ , he thought firmly, deciding that getting his hands on a couple pairs of decent jeans was a must as well, or at least a couple pairs of trousers with pockets.  _Plus a wand holster._ He added the item to his mental list.  _In fact, I better make it a whole new wardrobe_. He truly did love his mother dearly, but she had no sense of practicality. He couldn't go tromping through muddy trenches and fighting Death Eaters in trainers and thin cotton trousers. Not to mention, the bright plaid shirts and the  _dashing_ robes would be spotted a mile away and were not at all conducive to dueling or any other sort of fast pace movement, such as running for one's life.

_Impractical, completely ridiculous,_  Harry ranted, as he opened the only door to the room with full intentions of tracking down his father and godfather. Now that his head wasn't attempting to murder him, they had some very important issues to discuss. His wand and his wardrobe being amongst other pressing issues, such as how to explain his shift in personality and what his intentions were in regard to the impending war that was set to begin its second round in less than a year. He wasn't certain how things would pan out. However, at the current moment, only his father, his godfather, and he knew what he had done and who he actually was. They all needed to get on the same page about who could know what and exactly what said person or persons could be told. Yes, very important issues, indeed.

 


	12. Compromise

The hallways of Grimmauld Place were as dark and gloomy as ever. They had, however, been cleaned. Instead of having to fight off cobwebs and the spiders occupying said cobwebs, while attempting not to breathe in too much of the dust that stirred in the air with his every step, Harry's footfalls fell on pristine floorboards and his path ahead was unhindered, not even a single cobweb in sight. It was as if he had woken up back within 12 Grimmauld Place of the other world, eight years into the past. He remembered the hallways of that world's Grimmauld Place having been just as clean during the Weasleys' occupation of the house, when the house had served as headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix. The house hadn't been so clean since and probably never would be again, at least not in the other world – perhaps in this world Sirius would fix the place up.

Upon descending a flight of stairs down to the first floor, Harry had been about to descend the grand staircase and proceed to the home's basement kitchen, as had once been his accustom route upon waking in the mornings, when he noticed that the door to the drawing room was propped open and he heard his father and godfather's laughter ring out from within. Turning up the first floor hallway, he bypassed the Black Library and made for the drawing room at the end of the long, narrow hall.

" _Riddikulus!_ "

Harry heard his father choke out the spell between bouts of laughter, just as he rounded the doorframe of the drawing room to see what appeared to have been a dead and bloody body lying on the floor at the center of the room transform into a dancing red cape. Harry couldn't help but chuckled along with his father and godfather, as the cape flew up into the air and executed several clumsy dance moves, before a miscalculated pirouette caused it to catch on the edge of the tea table between the sofas and sent it skidding across the floor towards him in a wadded up ball.

"Harry!" James exclaimed in surprise and alarm, as the man caught sight of him.

Harry was only vaguely aware of his father and godfather's hurried steps faltering in their rush towards him and the boggart that they had been attempting to dispel. His focus was solely on the skeletal figure swathed in a dark cloak and silk robes rising from the folds of what had been the red cape to tower over him. His heart sped and adrenalin flooded him at the sight of the man who had haunted him day and night for almost the entirety of his life.  _It's a boggart. Only a boggart,_  he reminded himself firmly, refusing to give power to the being, as the menacing figure of the Dark Lord began to stride towards him with soundless, barefoot steps and a cruel smile twisting thin, white lips and crinkling pale, snake-like features. Gleaming red eyes bore into Harry with hatred and disgust, as the gaunt figure broke out into high, cold laughter that sent a shiver down his spine, drawing on the blood sodden earth, blistering fires, and the dark, twisted and near intoxicating magics deep within his memories that were associated with the image before him and the sound of that cold laughter ringing in his ears. With slow, deliberate movements, movements so reflective of the monster that it was depicting, the boggart withdrew a familiar bone white wand from within its robes.

Harry reacted on instinct, as if a switch had been flipped inside his mind. One second he had been standing his ground; the next he dove to the side, tucking his body into a roll and barely avoiding the sickly orange curse that the boggart had flung at him with a sharp flick of its wrist. There was a loud bang and a reverberating explosion, upon the curse making contact with the doorframe that he had been standing in not a second prior. Fragments of splintered wood blasted him and the drawing room, as he rounded on the boggart with his wand drawn.

Occluding his mind against the magic of the sentient being before him, in order to prevent it from drawing further inspiration from his memories, Harry thrust his ash wand in a sharp downward jab and finished the propulsion of the magic gathering under his command with a curved upward cut and twist. Black flames sprung forth from the very air in the room, licking off of the floorboards – an inferno taking on an almost conscious quality, as it hissed into being and engulfed the boggart, before the boggart could take even one more step towards him or raise the yew wand in its hand for a second time. Wrapping around the boggart in an imitation of the long, constricting body of a snake, the obsidian flames hummed with satisfaction under Harry's ironclad control, consuming the boggart offered to them with greedy haste. Upon blackened flakes of burnt flesh breaking away from the boggart's burning form and wafting to the floor, Harry cut the flow of energy feeding the flames with practiced difficulty, causing the flames to die out. Like a crumbling tower of cards, the charcoal remains of the boggart dissolved into a pile of ash.

Devil's Fire, while capable of widespread devastation in a matter of seconds, was also the only proven form of magic capable of destroying a dementor and was more than capable of destroying various other beings born of latent magic. It was his own personal variant of fiendfyre, one that he had been devastated to see end up in enemy hands and used against the very innocents that he had been trying to protect by its creation.

"Sorry about that," Harry said calmly, looking to his father and godfather, who were both staring at where the boggart had been with horror. "I should have employed Occlumency the second that I realize you were handling a boggart."

Ah, the sweet, naïve boy that he had been was showing through in his carelessness.  _I'll have to watch that,_  Harry thought firmly. It was something that he'd need to correct for a second time in his life, or so it seemed. With so many lives and an entire continent made up of various nations and cultures at stake, he couldn't afford to slip up and miss something important or get caught out and killed, before he had the chance to destroy the Voldemort of this world, as he had in the other world.

Seeing that his father and godfather were both still frozen in place and stunned to silence, Harry turned his attention to the boggart's remains.  _Evanesco!_ He swept his wand over pile of ash, which only resulted in his wand sputtering and shaking, before fizzling out without even producing a faint shadow of the vanishing spell. "Damn." He had burnt through more ill-fitted wands in his life than he cared to count. Hopefully, Ollivander would have a wand capable of matching him, as he didn't feel like waiting for the month it would take for Nataskova to assemble him a custom wand. The old witch was notorious for drawing out the process of obtaining a compatible wand wood. Plus, Ollivander's wands were of the finest quality this side of the English Channel. Nataskova could hardly compete, though she did try.

"W-what did you just do?"

Harry looked to Sirius. The man had finally managed to regain his wits, though he remained distinctly pale.

"I tried to cast a vanishing spells." Harry shrugged. The key word, in his opinion, was 'tried'.

"Don't play cute, Harry," James said, gathering himself as well. His eyes were hard and unyielding, as he stared down his son in demand of an explanation.

"Well, I  _did_  try to cast a vanishing spell," Harry said, carelessly tossing his now useless wand atop the boggart's remains. "As for what I did before that," he added, when neither his father nor godfather looked pacified, "…yes, it was Dark Magic. No, I will not tell you what it was specifically. Yes, it is dangerous to use. Yes, it can quickly spurn out of control without proper concentration and control. No, you weren't in any danger just now, not even for a second. Yes, I've used that particular spell countless times before now."

"And that thing was supposed to have been Voldemort?" Sirius asked shakily, when James said nothing and merely continued to stare at Harry with conflict in his hazel eyes. It was as if the man wanted to yell at his brazen son until he was blue in the face, yet knew that to do so would be counterproductive and a complete waste of his breath, as well as a waste of everyone's time.

Harry nodded in answer to Sirius's question, before drawing himself up and meeting his father's narrowed eyed gaze with defiance. While he was willing to compromise with his father on some things for the sake of retaining an amicable and close relationship with the man, this was one thing that he was not going to compromise on. He respected that not everyone viewed magic and how it should and should not be used as he did – it was the only way that he had been able to work with the other witches and wizards of the Resistance over the course of the war in the other world – but he wasn't about to change his views or disregard what he had come to know of the very nature of magic, no matter what his family's beliefs were regarding Dark Magic. As far as he was concerned, magic was magic. He had and would always work off of a spell by spell, situation by situation basis, when it came to determining what magic was acceptable and what wasn't acceptable.

"Dad, I know you don't like Dark Magic," Harry began, making it a point not to sound defensive or superior in his views, "but I  _am_  a gray wizard, a Dark Magic user. I'm not going to –"

James held up his hand for silence.

A tense quiet settled over the room, as Harry respected his father's request. When he had been Porteur, this  _unsavory_ part of him had no doubt been easier for his father to ignore and look past, as Porteur existence within this world was supposed to have been temporary. It seemed that he was going to need to be patient with his father now that his beliefs and their differences in regard to magic use had become a permanent part of him and their relationship. With a mental sigh, Harry settled in to wait for his father to decide either to yell at him or to come to terms with what he had done.

One minute passed, then another. No one moved. No one spoke. The drawing room and its occupants were utterly still

As Harry watched his father attempt to come to some sort of resolution, he noted that restraint coiled his father's entire being.  _He's fighting his very nature, his every instinct to refuse to accept Dark Magic within his home,_ he observed, knowing that fathers had disowned and kicked their sons out of their homes for much less. He sincerely doubted that his father would ever take things so far – James Potter just wasn't that sort of man – but it was clear that his father was struggling with his shift of morality. After all, the man had spent nearly 14 year raising his teenage self to be Light. Perhaps having his leanings thrown in the man's face first off wasn't the best thing, but his methods would have been called into question soon enough.

Shooting a look to Sirius, Harry saw that his godfather was watching his father with expectation and a faint note of apprehension. There was intensity in his godfather's gray eyes that was practically willing his father to not do or say anything rash. Again he had to wonder at the oddity of his godfather in this world. Though his teenage self had known the man his entire life, Sirius had never mentioned or showed any sort of dark leanings. In fact, Sirius rarely, if ever mentioned his views on magic. The one time that he did remember Sirius expressing an opinion on the magics regulated by the Ministry, his father had glared the man into silence.

A few more minutes passed. Finally, James seemed to come to a decision and he gestured for Harry to sit down on one of sofas.

"I'm just going to…" Sirius indicated to the door and his impending departure.

"I'm not lecturing him, Sirius," James said, resignation pulling at the corners of his lips and firm in his eyes.

Sirius looked skeptical for a half-second, before giving James a once over and appearing to accept that James was being honest. "Stay?"

"Stay," James confirmed.

Upon Harry settling on the old green sofa that he remembered having lounged on in the other world and Sirius reclining back on the sofa opposite Harry, James kneeled down beside Harry.

Harry hissed and snapped his attention to his father, as the man prodded lightly at a particularly sore spot on his right arm. Looking down to see the incurred injury, he was surprised to find several minor cuts, as well as a few splinters inlaid in the skin of both his arms. Though, his right arm was far worse off than his left. Lifting his left hand – the one that his father wasn't currently pulling splinters out of – he reached up to check his face for abrasions.

"You don't want to do that," James said, catching Harry's wrist and returning the appendage to his son's side.

"Dad, Porteur and Harry…they're both a part of me," Harry said, as he watched his father heal his wounds with practiced movements.

"They are, but you still have a choice in how you think and what you do," James said dismissively. "You're actions are you own. You understand?"

Harry nodded. He understood exactly what his father was saying: he had no excuses. Whatever part of him was more the 23 year old man than the teenage boy and whatever part of him was more the teenage boy than the 23 year old man was a part of him that he had chosen to embrace as being a part of himself. His memories were merely that: memories. While his past informed his present, he had the unique background of having experienced two separate and very different lives. If he wanted to, he could chose to align his beliefs with his teenage self, just as he could chose to align his emotional ties with the 23 year old man that he had been. What he did today or tomorrow or a year from could not be blamed on his past–selves. Yes, both the teenage boy and 23 year old man were a part of him, but he was the one calling the shots now, making his actions entirely his own.

James worked quietly and quickly for several minutes, carefully healing Harry's wounds. Harry noted that both his father and godfather had fared better than he had, as they had been further away from the blast. His father only had a few scrapes on his hands. His godfather appeared to have survived the destruction of the drawing room door unscathed.

"What are we going to tell Mum?" Harry asked, as his father finished healing an abrasion on his face into nonexistence. Now that things had calmed down, there were things that they did to discuss. His mother was a primary concern. She was no doubt out of her mind with worry by now.

"At the moment, she thinks that Sirius and I have taken you to see a specialist," James said, as he turned Harry's face to the left to check for additional cuts that he may have missed.

"An old family friend who owes the Blacks a favor and is paranoid about his privacy," Sirius supplied, when Harry looked to him questioningly.

"Exactly how long have I been out?" Harry asked, as he combined the revelation of his supposed whereabouts with the change in Grimmauld Place's overall cleanliness.  _Longer than a day that's for sure._  The lie that the two men had told his mother wasn't a temporary stall. It was an open ended stall that supplied them with as much time as would be needed for him to recover from the merging of his existence.

"Almost a week." James shifted back and slipped his wand into the holster strapped to his wrist, looking unconcerned by the extended amount of time that his son had slept.

"You gave me Yilmaz Solution, once the Dreamless Sleep began to wear off, didn't you?" Harry turned accusing eyes on Sirius. The solution put the patient into a medically induced coma and wouldn't allow the patient to wake, until all of his or her aliments had been healed or the antidote had been administered. He had only been subject to the solution once in the other world. The bastard who had drugged him had needed a dose of the Yilmaz and a decent healer himself, once he had finished with him. Admittedly, he may have over reacted. However, being rendered unconscious and unable to wake up and defend his person in the midst of an all out war was no small matter, especially as he had been  _the_  prime target of the opposition.

"You're welcome." Sirius grinned unrepentantly.

"Dose me again without my consent and we'll see if you're still smiling," Harry said darkly. He did  _not_  enjoy being drugged and particularly disliked being poisoned, though he would take the drugging over the poisoning.

"He had  _my_  consent," James cut in, giving Harry a pointed look. "As you're my son and underage, that's all the permission anyone needs, when seeing to your wellness and safety."

_Line drawn,_  Harry acknowledged, looking to his father and meeting the man's steadfast gaze.  _Concession: you give, I give. I allow this and in return…? Do you look the other way regarding the magics that I use, like you've forced yourself to do just now with my burning the boggart? Is that the compromise?_  He had seen in his father's eyes that the man knew that nothing that the man did or said would change his mind about the magics that he used. He had seen that the man knew that he would not change his mind on the matter, that this part of Porteur was here to stay. Looking at his father now, the man was just as set about having the ultimate say in assuring his wellbeing and safety as he had been about his use of magic.

"I'm not staying out of the war," Harry told the man firmly.

"I hadn't expected that you would," James said with acceptance.

"I'll fight using whatever means I deem necessary," Harry said, defining his side of the compromise.

James's eyes hardened the slightest bit, though he nodded. "I know you will."

"I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

"I've noticed." James's gaze flicked to the pile of ash that had been the boggart.

Harry eyed the man, looking for any signs of deception that foretold of the man reneging and giving him an earful regarding his use of Dark Magic. Seeing none, he nodded in acceptance. "As long as we understand each other…though exactly how old I am is debatable."

James grinned and shook his head in exasperation, as Sirius snorted with amusement.

"You're thirteen going on fourteen," Sirius informed decisively. "It's already been debated, put to a vote, and ruled upon."

"A mature thirteen going on a mature fourteen," James allowed, upon Harry scowling at both men.

"You know, if we add up all the years that I've actually lived, I'd be older than the both of you by two years?" Harry raised a challenging eyebrow.

"And if we average out how old you are, you'd be 18, or roughly so," Sirius said knowingly. "So how old are you: 36, 23, 18, or 14?"

"Exactly! It's debatable," Harry said, not entirely certain of the answer himself. All he did know was that he wasn't 14. He had lived through too much in both of his lives to be only 14 years old.

"As debatable as your mental age may be, Harry, your physical age is 13, going on 14," James said and gestured to Harry's scrawny frame, as if to prove his point. "Sirius and I have discussed this at length and every time we end up back at the fact that by law and how old people will perceive you to be, you are an underage wizard turning 14 at the end of the month."

Harry glared at his too small to belong to an adult hands, knowing that his father was right. When people look at him, they'd see a 14 year old boy. As he didn't actually know how old he was, the simplest and most sensible thing to do was to assume his physical age. It would prevent all kinds of confusion and would be easier for him and his family to keep track of.

"You two decide anything else while I was knocked out for the last week?" Harry asked derisively, looking from his father to his godfather and back to his father. "Outside of the obvious, of course." He indicated to the partially clean drawing room.

James exchanged a long look with Sirius, before turning back to Harry with troubled eyes and his lips pursed in a thin line. Harry noted that Sirius had suddenly become very solemn and serious as well.

"Nothing good then," Harry murmured resignedly.

"Porteur said that the information that you possess is sensitive," James began delicately.

Harry's eyes narrowed. "He also told you that I'd be keeping that information to myself. You'll be told what is important, when it's necessary and only when it's necessary. I'm not compromising on this, Dad. For my safety, for your safety, for the safety of the entire continent of Europe –"

" _Harry_ ," James's tone wasn't reprimanding, but it did have a sharp edge. "We're not asking for you to tell us what you know. Believe it or not, we do understand that there is information that needs to be kept contained to as few individuals as possible. If you're telling the truth about the impact that this information that you have could have should it get back to Voldemort what you know, I don't want to know any of it, unless you absolutely require that I be told part of it."

"Then what are you on about?" Harry's gaze cast shrewdly from his father to his godfather.

"How best to protect  _you_ ," Sirius said and leaned forward in his seat to rest his elbow on his knees. His eyes were grave and filled with concern.

Upon looking to back to James, Harry noted that his father was tense and that the man's eyes were filled with anxiety as well.

"What you know puts a target on your back," James said seriously. "Even if you reveal nothing sensitive to anyone else, should certain individuals find out that you have knowledge of an alternate universe, one where the war has already been fought and won, it won't matter that you've no intentions of sharing your knowledge."

"And we're not just talking about Voldemort and his followers. There are also the Ministry, mad experimentalists, and even Dumbledore to worry about." Sirius ticked off each threat on the fingers of his left hand. "Although, the mad experimentalists won't care much for you knowledge regarding the war and will just want to examine the first person to not only successfully merge souls, but traverse dimensions."

"You do realize that they'd have to get their hands on me first," Harry said, finding it difficult to be concerned about crackpot experimentalists that were better suited for lab work than dueling. As for the Ministry, it was run by idiots. Sure, a few Aurors like his father and the Longbottoms were fairly sharp, but the overall legislature was so full of loopholes that just about anyone could get away with murder with the right defense and enough galleons. Dumbledore and Voldemort were legitimate concerns, he did have to admit. However, he was more than capable of hold his own, whether it be against Dumbledore's suspicions or Voldemort's Dark Regime.

"It's already been proven that you can be drugged," Sirius pointed out, arching a meaningful eyebrow at his godson.

"What we're getting at," James cut in, as Harry's eyes narrowed dangerously at Sirius with the reminder, "is that we don't think that revealing the truth of who you actually are is a good idea."

"Not to  _anyone_?" Harry asked, shock resonating through him with the implication of his father's words. Surely his mother, at least, had the right to know. He couldn't just lie to her and pretend that nothing had changed. While he could pull off the act of being his teenage self for a brief amount of time, he wouldn't be able to keep it up indefinitely. She was bound to notice that his 23 year old self was a part of him. Not to mention, it felt  _wrong_  just thinking about lying to her about something like this. He could see keeping the truth of who he was from Bethany and people outside of the family – in fact, it was what he preferred – but not keeping it from his mother.

"Harry, what your mother and sister don't know can't harm you or them," James said gravely.

"She's my  _mother_ ," Harry said in objection.

"Yes," James agreed, though his expression remained unrelenting, "Lily is your mother. She is also my wife and practically Sirius's sister. We don't like the idea of keeping this from her any more than you do. However, things are what they are. For the same reasons that you don't want to tell us what you know, who you are has to stay between us."

"This isn't –" Harry cut himself off to prevent himself for saying anything about Voldemort's horcruxes, the Kill Wards already laid in Britain, and various other bits of information that could easily get thousands, if not millions of people killed, muggle and magical alike. "This is something personal…about  _me_. It isn't the same."

"Ignorance is bliss," Sirius said softly. "Knowing that her son's nightmares were never just nightmares and that he'd been a horcrux for an alternate version of her son, who grew up in entirely different world without her…" Sirius trailed off, frowning. "She's better off not knowing the truth."

"So the lie that you told her about taking me to a specialist wasn't just a stall for time," Harry surmised, understanding what his godfather hadn't said outright. The truth would hurt his mother. Not only would it put her in danger and increase the danger to himself, it would cause her unnecessary grief. Looking from his godfather to his father, he could see that both men knew just how harmful the truth could be. They were handling the situation admirably, yet the knowledge of the magics that had been involved in his 23 year old self coming to be a part of his teenage self and the loss of his teenage self to who he had become as result of the merge of his two selves weighed heavily on them.

"She's expecting her son to come home cured," James said in confirmation. "We've told her that the specialist knows of a way to heal the 'fracture' in your personality. She's prepared for you to be different."

"Simple with a hint of truth," Harry acknowledged with a grim smile tugging at his lips. At least she wouldn't be expecting him to be the version of her son that she had known for the last 14 years.

"All the best lies are." James smiled a grim smile of his own.


	13. Going Home

Diagon Alley was bustling with people. Witched and wizards of all ages and of various backgrounds were moving about the narrow, cobble street. Children weaved in and out of the crowd – giggling and chasing after each other, as their parents yelled for them to come back, or requested that they not go too far. Street vendors and shop owners could be heard declaring their wares and calling out their sales for the day. Their voices rang out enticingly, drowning out the excitement about the upcoming Quidditch World Cup and the latest gossip being spread amongst the masses.

Harry grinned, as colorful displays flashed in multiple store fronts, some accompanied by bangs and puffs of multicolored smoke or flamboyant showers of sparks. In this world, he hadn't come to Diagon Alley often, as he hadn't really liked crowds and had preferred to stay home, if he could. In the other world, the last time that he had seen Diagon Alley so cheerful was the summer before his third year at Hogwarts, which had been over a decade ago according the memories of his 23 year old self. Harry truly couldn't help but feel exhilarated by his surroundings, as he felt the palpable magic in the air cling to his person and shift around him with the movements of his fellow patrons.

With the midday sun warming his face and the familiar scent of fresh baked bread mingling with herbs and the fumes of various potions coming from the bakery up the way and the apothecary to his left filling his nose and lungs with his every breath, Harry could only continue to grin like a loon, as he and his father cut a path through the crowd and made their way towards Ollivander's.

"You all right?"

Harry looked up to his father, who was striding along beside him. At seeing the bemused look on the man's face, his grin broadened. "I'm fine, more than fine actually."

Well, in truth, Harry  _was_  a bit disconcerted over not having a working wand on his person, but it wasn't like he was entirely helpless without a wand. The war in the other world had taught him many things, surviving a hostile encounter without a wand being one of the more useful and important lessons that he had learned. Not to mention, this world wasn't at war quite yet. It was unlikely that he would be attacked, unlikely to the point that there was a better chance of the cloudless sky unleashing a down pour of fat raindrops on the city of London within the next few minutes. With magic involved, it wasn't beyond the realm of possibility, but it remained highly improbable all the same.

As Harry and James made their way past Gringotts, Harry's elated mood falter ever so slightly and he turned a surreptitious glare upon the great, snow white bank. The Goblin Nation had basically handed Voldemort the whole of Europe in the other world, when the self-serving bastards had transferred the contents of every last bank vault connected to the Resistance and its individual members and allies to multiple accounts setup for the ever expanding Dark Regime. The transfers had included the funds of several nations that had opposed Voldemort, as well as the funds of quite a few noble houses and successful businesses within the nations that had already been conquered by Voldemort.

With Voldemort basically controlling the majority of the gold throughout Europe, as the Dark Lord had the accounts of the Resistance as well as the accounts of his followers under his command, Voldemort had soon taken control of the trading of goods and had moved to conquer the nations that he had yet to conquer. With the Kill Wards expanding over each conquered nation, Voldemort had gained near exclusive control over immigration and all movement between the Europe's nations. Starvation and what had been basically a life of slavery for low-class half-bloods, blood-traitors, and non-human magical races and concentration camps and mass killings for muggle-borns and muggles had soon followed. As Voldemort had bolster his Elite with riches and vast plots of land, mid-class citizens had been left to fight amongst themselves for the few jobs that actually paid a decent amount of galleons and to obtain enough food to feed their families, as well as save enough gold to pay their taxes to the Dark Regime for protection against the 'Undesirables' and particularly against Harry Potter, Undesirable No. 1.

Seeing as most of Voldemort's Elite had been prone to abusing the power granted to them, it had been entirely unsurprising that the remains of Europe's economy had collapsed in its entirety within a short six months. Anyone in possession of gold had quickly become a target for thieves. Anyone in possession of food had been likely to be killed for it, if they weren't skilled enough to protect their rations. Tribes had formed out of necessity for self-preservation and territory wars had bloodied the lands in response. Of course, Voldemort hadn't given two shits about the quick decline of civilized society in the lower classes. As long as his Dark Regime and its Elite had been recognized as having supreme authority and the tribes had paid their taxes, whether with galleons or desired goods and services, he had been satisfied. In fact, the infighting between the half-bloods and blood-traitors  _proved_  that pure-bloods, who were loyal to their blood, truly were the superior race, or so the Elite had liked to claim.

Ruthlessness had become the new anthem of survival, as the months passed and the territory wars turned to blood wars. By the time the year 2000 had rolled around, things had gotten so bad that the Resistance and the Dark Regime, though both sides had been fighting a drawn out war against each other, shared the common goal of keeping the tribes from completely wiping each other out. To this point, and out of desperation for his own survival and the survival of those under his command, Harry had taken to selling his and the Resistance's combat skills to the highest and most justified bidder under his assumed name of Porteur Demort. In return, the Resistance had progressively gained a steady source of food, galleons to trade with, information, and an expanding network of contacts. Runners had been setup to assist the tribes in circumventing the restrictions of the Kill Wards and to move goods between the tribes, so that the tribes didn't have to rely solely on the Dark Regime to attain the items that they needed, yet couldn't magic into existence – such as food, potions, and wands. The more vicious tribes had had their leaders assassinated and had been told to elect a new leader, who was better than the last, and to keep the peace, or it wouldn't be only their leader killed the next time. Of course, some hadn't listened and had ultimately met a bloody fate at the hands of the Resistance or the Dark Regime.

Over time, the operation of Runners had become a full out underground smuggling network and the Resistance's network of contacts had spread all across Europe. Progressively, the blood wars between the tribes calmed and with that calm, the oppressed had begun to turn their attention and anger to their oppressors. As the Runners became more and more successful in smuggling things into, out of, and within Europe, more and more tribes deflected from the control of the Dark Regime's strict rule. Their fighters joined the Resistance or the Runners, while the ones who neither wanted to fight, nor wanted to remain under the oppression of the Dark Regime, were smuggled out of Europe to Russia, the Middle East, and Africa, before dispersing across the globe.

Upon the situation in Europe stabilizing to a point where Harry had been comfortable with leaving Ron, the Talvace brothers, and a few other of his most trusted in charge of their multitude of operations, he had made the trek to Russia himself and had, with his personnel presence and refusal to accept 'no' as an answer, finally gotten the International Confederation of Wizards cooperation in setting up an emergency meeting. It wasn't until he had walked into the domed conference hall of the Confederation and had stated his birth name, as well as his widely recognized assumed name of Porteur Demort, and spent the following fortnight petitioning the Confederation for assistance in the Resistance's efforts against Voldemort and the Dark Lord's Dark Regime that things had truly started to look up for the Resistance, since the day that goblins had sold them out to the Dark Regime three years prior. Though the Confederation had been vastly busy and were sure to remain vastly busy with keeping the muggles of the world in the dark about what had been occurring in Europe, various nations had relent their neutral status and tetchy attitudes about the Europeans having let things get so out of control in the first place and had given promises of support by means of financial, medical, or physical aid. By that point, however, millions of European lives had already been lost and the only thing that they had had left to hope to gain was peace for Europe once more.

_Not this time,_  Harry though fiercely, as he observed the two goblin sentries standing guard on either side of bronze door marking Gringotts's public entrance.  _Fuck me over once, that's all on you. Fuck me over twice – like hell I'll let it happen a second time._  If he had his way, he'd screw the greedy cowards over royally, as he carried a sizable sum of their own gold out their doors.

"Harry?"

Harry looked several paces ahead of him to his father, having not realized that he had stopped walking. The bespectacled man was watching him with wary eyes. He forced a smile back on his face and pushed away his memories of the other world. He had a lot to do in this world, but now was not the time for him to go questing after horcruxes and ward stones, or plotting revenge against an entire race of magical beings, who technically hadn't yet committed the crime that he held them responsible for. Last night and this morning hadn't been the time either, though he had been sorely tempted to question Sirius about the Locket of Salazar Slytherin. Ultimately, he had decided to hold off on doing so for the time being; at least until he had had the opportunity to speak with Kreacher, who Sirius had divulged hadn't been freed but rather had been banished to work in the kitchens at Hogwarts. No, now was not the time for such things. Right now he needed to focus on getting settled within his environment and establishing his new persona within the eyes of his family, friends, and the general populace. His activities would soon be suspicious enough without people believing that they have reason to distrust him.

"How much do you want to bet that it will take over a half-hour for Ollivander to find me a wand?" Harry asked nonchalantly, as he started off for Ollivander's once more.

"Your mother would have my head, if I put a stake to that bet," James said, relaxing and falling into step beside his son.

Harry looked sideways at his father with a pointed look. If his mother ever found out all of what his father had kept and planned to keep from her, a betting stake would be the least of his worries. "If you don't tell her, I won't tell her."

James sighed in exasperation. "Fine, 10 sickles."

"5 galleons," Harry countered.

"Now you're just trying to take my money," James accused with a wry grin.

"Do we have a bet or not?" Harry asked, giving the man a smile that was back to being genuine and not at all forced.

"5 galleons," James confirmed with a nod.

Upon the two Potter reaching the dilapidated building with a single wand resting on a velvet pillow in its display window on the southern end of Diagon Alley, James opened the rickety door for a very familiar, graying haired witch leaving the shop with two other adults and a young boy in tow.

"Professor," James greeted respectfully. His eyes passed over the family accompanying the witch. The man, woman, and boy were all dressed in distinct muggle attire and all three had a wide-eyed, fascinated look about them, as if they could hardly believe that the world around them actually existed.

"James…Mr. Potter," Professor McGonagall greeted in return, pausing just long enough to communicate an uncertainty about Harry's identity.

"Hello, Professor," Harry greeted politely. He could hardly blame her for the double-take. He didn't exactly look like his teenage self. He wasn't wearing his accustom glasses, as he no longer needed them do to his 23 year old self having preformed a ritual to correct his vision and enhance his ability to see in the dark and fog. The ritual had left an imprint on his very magic, which had transferred seamlessly to his new self. Plus, he had already dragged his father off to a vintage clothing shop a few blocks off of Charing Cross, which he had discovered existed in his last month of hunting the remaining Death Eaters occupying the London area in the other world. Though the shop had been abandoned with it windows broke out and a good amount of its products ransack in the other world, it was still open for business and seemed to be doing quite well for itself in this world. As it was, he had already exchanged his old attire for a pair of sturdy boots, black washed jeans, and a comfortable gray t-shirt, adding his bomber jacket over top.

"I had heard that you were on the continent with Lord Black," McGonagall remarked, as her eyes shifted questioningly from Harry back to James.

"We were," James said promptly, while giving no outward indication that he, Harry, and Sirius hadn't been on the continent over the last week.

As his father set about informing McGonagall about their 'trip', Harry turned his attention to the Whitbys – or so he assumed that the family accompanying McGonagall were the Whitbys, as he recognized the boy as being a younger version of the nineteen year old Kevin Whitby that he remembered fighting alongside in the other world. Kevin had been a good fighter, as well as unrelenting in his loyalty to him and moronically brazen at times. Although the blond haired youth had been sorted into Hufflepuff, he'd had the courage of a Gryffindor. He might even say that Kevin had possessed the cunning of a Slytherin as well, but there were definitely moments that  _that_  had been debatable. Nonetheless, Kevin had ended up being one of the few muggleborns of Britain that had managed to survive the war. Lisa Turpin and Addison McCoy were the other two that he knew of, though he sincerely hoped, even now as a permanent resident of this world, that there were more survivors that he hadn't been informed of prior to his forced departure from the other world.

"Hello," Harry said warmly and extended his hand to Kevin. "I'm Harry Potter."

"Kevin," Kevin said, while tentatively shaking Harry's proffered hand. "Kevin Whitby."

"And we're Patrick and Jenifer," the dark haired woman, who was standing close beside Kevin, introduced herself and her husband, who was standing on the other side of Kevin, "Kevin's parents."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Harry said, shaking Patrick Whitby's hand and bowing his head politely to Jenifer Whitby. "You're muggles, yes?"

"They're muggles," Kevin said, lazily waving his hand between his parents. "I'm a wizard," he said proudly and, as if to prove that he was indeed a wizard, the blond boy withdrew a lightly stained wand from his back pocket and held it up for Harry's examination.

"Well, you are certainly more of a wizard than I am at the current moment," Harry joked and held out his empty hands to show his lack of wand.

"Are you a muggle-born as well?" Patrick asked, his blue eyes bright with interest and taking in Harry muggle attire.

"Nah, I'm a half-blood – one of my parents was born of muggle blood, while the other was born of magical blood," Harry clarified at the confused looks that he received from the Whitbys. "As for my lack of wand, I foolishly left it lying about and it got snapped yesterday evening."

"You hear that, Kevin," Jenifer said to her son sternly. "You best keep track of where you leave your wand. Heaven knows that room of yours is a mess. You really ought to clean it."

"Speaking of keeping track of your wand," Harry cut in, as Kevin scowled at his mother with a red face and mumbled something about embarrassing him, "putting your wand in your back pocket really isn't the best thing to do. An old Auror once told me a story about a mate of his blowing off his left buttocks."

"Where are you supposed to put it?" Kevin asked, now looking at his wand with unease.

"Aurors, Hit Wizards, and the like carry their wands in a wand holster on their wrist," Harry said, indicating to the small showing of his father's wand holster beneath the right sleeve of his father's robes. "It provides a quick draw. As for every day citizens, most keep their wands in the breast pocket of their robes." Harry scrutinized Kevin's wiry frame. Seeing that the boy was in jeans and a t-shirt with no jacket, he shrugged. "You'd probably have the best luck with keeping your wand in one of your front pockets for now. At least that way you won't sit on it and accidently set it off or break it."

"I take it you go to Hogwarts?" Patrick question, glancing to where James and McGonagall continued to exchange words in hushed tones.

"I'm going into my fourth year," Harry said with a nod, before moving to a topic that he hoped would keep the conversation flowing, while his father finished speaking with McGonagall. "Have you been informed of the house system yet?"

Receiving the negative response that he had been hoping for, Harry launched into describing the Hogwarts Founders and the traits belonging to the Houses of Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin.

As Harry wrapped up informing the Whitbys about the four houses, how the dorms worked, and taking meals in the Great Hall several minutes later, his father and McGonagall finally broke apart.

_About time,_  Harry thought, as his father came to stand at his side. While he liked Kevin well enough and didn't necessarily mind telling the Whitbys about Hogwarts, he was anxious to have a wand once more tucked up his sleeve. He felt naked without having a working wand on his person. It just wasn't right.

"I am sorry to have kept you waiting," McGonagall said to the Whitbys. "James, these are Patrick and Jenifer Whitby and their son, Kevin. This is James Potter," she looked to the Whitbys and gestured to James, "and you've met Harry," she indicated to Harry, "his son."

_A little late for formalities, Professor._ Harry regarded McGonagall with speculative eyes, as the witch continued on to explain to his father that she was assisting the Whitbys in purchasing Kevin's supplies for his first year at Hogwarts _._

"I'm an Auror," Harry heard his father tell Kevin, who had asked about the man's wand holster and whether he was an Auror or a Hit Wizard.

"What do Aurors do?" Kevin asked with inquisitive eyes.

"Aurors are similar to the detectives of the muggle police," James said kindly. "We catch bad guys and prevent bad things from happening."

"Cool!" Kevin exclaimed.

"It's pretty cool at times," James agreed, smiling at Kevin's enthusiasm. When he looked up from Kevin to the Whitby parents, he gave them an apologetic look. "I do hope you'll forgive us for interrupting your shopping."

"No need for apologies," Jenifer dismissed. "You've quite the polite young man. Harry was very pleasant company and very helpful. We're glad to have met him…and you, if anything."

"You're very kind, madam," Harry said, accepting the compliment with a grace that his teenage self wouldn't have been able to pull off if his life depended upon it. Sputtering and blushing furiously, while looking for an adult to shy behind, had been more of his style.

Upon stepping into Ollivander's dusty wand shop with his father a few minutes later, after having exchanged farewells with Professor McGonagall and the Whitbys, Harry raised an eyebrow at his father in silent enquiry of what his father and McGonagall had been discussing that had taken so long. Their cover story wasn't that elaborate. Sirius knew of a specialist in the Mind Arts on the continent who owed the Blacks a favor. Harry had spent a week with the man and had gotten his mind sorted – end of story. As far as anyone needed to know, his split personality had been mended, blending who he had been with his alternate persona that had developed out of his nightmares. It explained away the changes in his personality perfectly, as well as his knowledge and abilities. No one could contradict it, as each case of Dissociative Identity Disorder was different and the disorder was not yet fully understood, especially in the magical world. How it had taken his father so long to convey a few simple facts was beyond him.

"We'll discuss it at home," James said, while urging Harry further into the shop.

Harry nodded in acceptance and turned his attention to the silver haired, elderly man standing behind the mahogany counter at the center of the narrow store front. There were five wand boxes resting open before Gerrick Ollivander, who was watching him with curiosity and expectation, as well as a faint trace of apprehension.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Ollivander," Harry greeted, as he stepped up to the counter.

"I'd ask what you did with your old wand, Young Lord, but I do believe that would turn into quite the tale," Ollivander said and gestured to the first box. "Give it a try: Blackthorn, phoenix feather, 11 ¼ inches – unyielding. It's a very powerful wand indeed."

"I am no lord, neither young nor full-fledged," Harry said, narrowing his eyes at Ollivander, as he picked up the wand. He wasn't a lord in this world, at any rate. The fact that he had been regarded as the Gray Lord of Europe in the other world had no bearing on his status in this world, and while the Potters had a decent amount of gold in both worlds, they did not have a seat on the Wizengamot or have an inherited title passed down from the days of the Wizards' Council and magicals intermingling with muggle nobility. Unlike the Blacks, Malfoys, Greengrasses, Macmillans, and several of the other older houses, the Potters were not a Noble House. Ollivander referring to him as a 'Young Lord' had no reference to his present or future, even if the oddity of a man had somehow picked up on his past designation in the other world.

What Ollivander said next, however, Harry had not expected and made it clear that he was not referring to his title of Gray Lord of Europe in the other world.

"Your magic disagrees, Mr. Potter, and your father knows very well from whom you hail," Ollivander spoke the words ominously, as his eyes traveled to James meaningfully.

"I'd hold your tongue, Ollivander," James said from his position by the door, his tone chilling and laced with an unspoken threat that promised nothing good, if Ollivander continued down the same line of conversation.

Harry stiffened at his father's snapped response, feeling his hair raise on the back of his neck, as his father's cutting words slid past him. He had never heard his father speak so coldly or so forcefully before. Slowly, he turned away from Ollivander and the selection of wand before him to look back at his father. James met his startled gaze with impassive hazel eyes and a carefully composed mask set upon his face that revealed nothing, yet said everything at the same time. Ollivander wasn't just blowing smoke. The elderly man had struck a nerve.

"Dad?" Harry asked, not quite sure what to ask or if he should even broach the subject at all at the moment. All he did know was that he was woefully ignorant about what Ollivander was referring to and his father knew something about it.

James remained where he stood for a moment's pause, before he strode forward with purposeful steps, took hold of Harry's shoulder with a gentle grip, and turned Harry back to face Ollivander and the selection of wands. He plucked the blackthorn wand from Harry's hand and returned it to its box without a word or sparing Ollivander a glance.

"What is this one?" James asked, upon actually looking to Ollivander. He tapped the box of the next wand in the lineup.

"Cypress, dragon heartstring, 10 ½ inches – springy," Ollivander said dutifully and then said nothing more.

Understanding his father's actions for what they were, Harry reached out for the wand. As he plucked it up from its box, he silently vowed that he and his father were going to have a nice long chat later…and not only about what his father had been discussing with McGonagall. In this world, he had yet to learn all that much about his heritage. In the other word, he had known next to nothing about the Potters. Apparently, he still had much to learn about who he was and exact from whom he hailed.

"Walnut, dragon heartstring, 12 inches – firm," Ollivander said without his usual mysticism, as Harry replaced the unresponsive cypress wand in its box and moved on to pick up the next wand in the lineup.

And so the process went. Harry tried the various wands that Ollivander provided him, all the while doing his best to ignore the way that his father's eyes bore into the side of his skull with greater intensity than they had the night before and much of the morning and to ignore the way that Ollivander had suddenly become all business with no exaggerated fanfare or unnecessary embellishments about the wands that he presented.

Harry tried wand after wand – few containing unicorn hair, some containing a phoenix feather, and most containing a dragon heartstring core. He tried a variety of woods – everything from acacia to sycamore to yew to fir. As the half-hour mark passed, he did not point out his winning of their bet to his father for the tense atmosphere within the wand shop did not permit it.

Finally, after several more minutes and many more wands, Harry felt the rush of the wand in his hand accepting his magic and unleashing it in its full brilliance with no detectable resistance. Red and silvery, dark gray sparks swirled around him, as he cut the wand through the air. He sighed in contentment at having a properly matched wand in his possession once more, relishing in the easy of his magic flowing through the wand. Upon opening his eyes – having not even realized that he had closed them – he found Ollivander regarding him with trepidation.

"Problem?" Harry asked, fed up with the man's strange behavior.

"No," Ollivander said and shook his head. "It is a fine wand. Cherry, dragon heartstring, 11 ½ inches – unyielding. It will serve you well."

If Harry wasn't imagining things, there was an attached 'maybe too well' to the man's statement that had gone unsaid.

"How much?" James asked, before Ollivander could say anything more.

"Twelve galleons, Mr. Potter."

As his father paid for the wand, Harry slipped his new cherry wand up the right sleeve of his bomber jacket. He'd ask his father for a wand holster for his birthday.

"If you ever breathe a word, Ollivander…" James left the threat hanging, while his eye told of a father capable of doing whatever was necessary to protect his son.

"None will here of the young lord's ascension from me." Ollivander bowed his head respectfully.

James hesitated and his eyes darted briefly to Harry, before returning to Ollivander. "You are certain?"

"It is unmistakable," Ollivander said assuredly.

Harry restrained himself with practiced self-discipline from asking about what was 'unmistakable' and what Ollivander meant about 'his ascension'. Instead, he bid Ollivander a good day and followed his father out of the wand crafter's shop. Back out on the main street of Diagon Alley, he found himself immediately drawn close to his father in a fierce embrace. The next second, he was being squeezed through a tight tube with the air being pushed from his lungs and his blood pounding in his ears.

Harry gasped wildly, having not been prepared for the sudden apparation, upon his feet reconnecting with solid ground and his body being released from his father's embrace and the magic that had gripped them both. He was about to demand for a bit of warning the next time his father decided to grab hold of him and apparate him away, when he faltered at the sight before him and nervousness abruptly clenched his stomach. He was home for the first time in nearly two weeks.


	14. Home

For a long moment, Harry stared at Potter Cottage from where he and his father had apparated upon the stepping stone path leading to the cottage's oak front door. The garden gate was but a few paces behind them, latched closed as usual. In the high noon sunlight, the many pansy, begonias, tulips, and marigolds occupying the flowerbeds lining the ivy twined fencing surrounding the cottage's front garden were in full bloom with bees buzzing from one flower to the next and butterflies sunbathing on their vivid green foliage. The centuries old wattle and daub cottage had its windows thrown wide, letting in the warm afternoon breeze. Harry could hear the Weird Sisters blasting from around the back of the cottage, which he knew to be coming from Bethany's bedroom. She was particularly obsessed with the band's lead singer, Myron Wagtail, like most girls of her age.

Harry smiled at the thought of his younger sister and attempted to rid himself of his nervousness, which was entirely unwarranted, if he were to look at things objectively. This was his childhood home. His mother and sister were just inside waiting for his father and him to return. He may not be the boy that they had come to know over the last fourteen years, but he remained their son and brother. That had to count for something. They wouldn't reject him for being a bit different than they remembered. Their hearts wouldn't allow it.

"Come on," James said and rested a supportive hand on Harry's shoulder.

With the coaxing press of his father's hand, Harry took one step – then another – towards the front stoop. The sweet nectar of the garden's blossoms and the scent of the lawn having been freshly trimmed diluted with his every step, as the smells of homemade biscuits and a fresh baked meat pie wafted out to him through the cottage's open windows.

Upon reaching the front door, Harry reached out, gingerly turned the old iron latch, and pushed the weight of the door inward. The wail of Myron Wagtail belting "Do the Hippogriff" increased in volume, as he stepped into the long, white walled, photograph lined entrance hall beyond.

"For the love of Merlin!" James growled out between gritted teeth, as he stepped into the entrance hall behind Harry. Without waiting for his son to step aside, he stepped passed Harry purposefully and headed for the stairs off to the left side of the hall with an angry stride, all the while muttering under his breath.

Harry sighed, feeling only a small twinge sympathy for his sister, as he watched their father stomp up the stairs. But a moment later, Kirley Duke's guitar solo was abruptly cut short before it could even truly begin with his sister's bedroom door slamming open and his sister yelling out in furious protests.

"DAD!" Bethany's yell reverberated through the cottage just as loudly as "Do the Hippogriff" had been only a moment prior.

"I'm leave for a week –"

"Mum said –"

"Before or after you turned it down for the tenth time, only to turn it back up the second that she was back downstairs?"

Harry shook his head, knowing that his father's pronouncement was closer to the truth than his sister would ever admit, and headed for the kitchen to find his mother.  _You're on your own with that, little sis. You're on your own._  He would have to say hello to her later, after their father was done scolding her.

As Harry passed through the arched doorway to his left, a little before the stairs and opposite another archway leading to the sitting room, and set off across the handsome dining room decorated in rich mahoganies and royal blues – the room rarely ever used outside of special occasions – he heard Bethany and their father's disagreement over the merits of blasting the Weird Sisters at full volume throughout the house develop into a full blown argument.

_You really shouldn't test him right now, Bethany,_  Harry thought warningly, knowing that his father's self-restraint had been severely strained over the last few weeks and that the man had been pushed even further on edge from their trip to Ollivander's. If she came out of their argument with only a few days worth of grounding, he'd be surprised. A full week to ten days of grounding sounded more likely.

"Well,  _you_ weren't here, so why does it even matter?"

_Make that definitely a week at the very least,_  Harry thought with exasperation. Bethany never had been able to hold her tongue when she ought to.

Upon rounding the framed archway leading to the kitchen that double as their dining room for day to day use, Harry felt himself pass through a static wall of magic. The instant that his father and sister's argument was cut off and his mother's melodic humming filled his ears, he knew the ward to be a silencing ward. Out of curiosity to see what ward his mother was using in specific, he stepped back through the wall of magic and then stepped forward through it for a second time, while paying close attention to the magic brushing against his skin.

" _Crevetace Sanctum_ ; not a bad choice." Harry smiled softly at his mother, as she whirled around – startled by his intrusion – from where she had been directing a knife to chop a variety of vegetables and a bowl of greens to rinse under a steady stream from the tap.

For a long moment, Lily Potter stood frozen in place, staring at Harry with her right hand clutched over her rapidly beating heart and her left hand clutching the counter behind her. Her eyes were wide and filled with emotion that flickered so fast from amazement to relief to uncertainty and doubt, before returning to wonder and hope. Harry remained stock-still and waited for the reaction that was sure to come, as her eye roved over him with scrutiny and she took in his form standing before her; healthy, whole, and of one mind.

"H-Harry?" Lily choked out, as her eyes took on a watery sheen and her grip on the lip of the wooden countertop counter slackened.

"Hi, Mum," Harry said into the quiet of the kitchen. He could not keep the relieved smile from his face, as he saw the love in her eyes.

As if Harry's response was all that Lily needed to hear, she rushed forward, hurriedly stepped around the center island at the middle of the room, and wrapped her arms around Harry in a suffocating hug.

"O-oh, Harry," she sobbed, as she held him close. "My baby, my b-baby boy – you're h-home. You're f-finally home. How I've m-missed you…"

Wrapping his arms around his mother, who was a few inches shorter than he was himself, Harry made sure not to tug on her long, auburn ponytail and allowed his mother to cling to him and thoroughly soak his shoulder with her tears. As she babble about him being home, how much she had missed, and how scared she had been that she had lost him – as well as how much she loved him and would always love, even if he was no longer the same as he had been before he had left – he did his best to sooth her and make out her muffled words.

"Shh, Mum," Harry said, as her halted babble gave out to heartfelt sobs. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. I love you. Shh…everything is fine now. I promise." He move one of his hand up to the back of her head and cradled her close to him, while wishing that he could do more.

Upon feeling his mother's weight give way against him, Harry tightened his arms around her instinctively and kissed her hair. He wasn't entirely certain what to do, other than stand there and let her cry herself into exhaustion. Knowing how much she cared about their family and fretted over even the slightest of coughs or the smallest of bruises, he doubted that she had slept all that much in the last few weeks – not with him missing and then his father and him 'on the continent' with Sirius for the last week. Exhaustion would surely claim her soon with the torrent of emotion taking its toll on her.

_Or so I hope,_  Harry thought despairingly. He didn't like seeing his mother so upset. The entire situation was made worse for him, as he knew that he was the singular cause of her tears.

Harry wasn't certain how long they stood there. All he did know was that he was flooded with relief, upon hearing familiar footsteps enter the kitchen behind him. As he craned his neck around to look to his father, he gestured helplessly to his mother, who was still clinging to him as if her very next breath depended upon it. He loved his mother and was more than happy that she was happy to have him home and was as accepting of him as he had hoped that she would be, but calming crying women had never been his specialty. Half the time, he usually ended up making things worse. Though, so far, it didn't seem he was doing too horribly. He hadn't been able to sooth her tears, however he hadn't exactly made them worse either.

"Lily," James said gently and reached out to disentangle her from Harry. She went willingly, her blurry emerald eyes searching for her husband.

"J-James," Lily sobbed, as the man pulled her to him.

Harry didn't hear the rest of what she said, as she buried her face against his father's robes and her sobs that had somewhat calmed took hold once more.

"Yes, he is," James responded softly to her tearful babble, stroking a hand through her hair and disentangling her ponytail, while using his other hand to cradle her to him.

"I'm going to go find Bethany," Harry mouthed the words to his father and tilted his head towards the closed door to their right that led out to the entrance hall just beyond the stairs and near the backdoor.

"Check the back garden," James mouthed back and looked pointed out the window over the kitchen sink that viewed said garden.

Harry nodded his understanding and headed for the backdoor, stepping around the kitchen table and its spindle legged chairs. His father would know how to calm his mother down. Somehow, his father always knew just what to do to make all of them feel better.

Out in the entrance hall, Harry took an immediate left and exited the house through the backdoor that stood exactly opposite the front door. The cool shade that was slowly creeping across the back garden at an angle, as the sun made its daily pass overhead, felt pleasant against his exposed skin in contrast to the heat of the day and the exceptional warmth of the kitchen. Like in the front garden, the flowers in the back garden were in full bloom. Unlike the front garden that was mainly comprised of decorative plant life that lined along the ivy twined fencing defining their property, the plant life of their back garden was spread throughout the open area of their backyard and was most comprised of fruit and vegetable vegetation and various other plants that could be harvested for potion ingredients or directly applied medicinal purposes. Four rune stone pillars stood at the four corners of the vast garden. Though they weren't currently activated, Harry knew that in the late fall and throughout the winter into early spring they would provide a stable environment for the plants to continue to grow and flourish, as if were still mid-summer.

"Harry?"

Harry smiled at Remus Lupin, who was currently fighting with a flitterbloom a few paces up the garden path from the back stoop. If the shears in the werewolf's hands were any indication, the man was attempting to trim its wandering tentacles, which were indeed looking a bit long, as they had grown to extend past their usual four feet. He had to restrain himself from outright laughing at the man's predicament, as the tentacles curious prodded at the man's robes and pulled at the man's short, tawny locks. Unfortunately for all herbologists, flitterblooms were highly sensitive to active magic and wilted with even the most delicately applied Freezing Charm.

"Hi, Remus," Harry greeted and stepped down from the back stoop to assist his pseudo-uncle. He grabbed hold of the tentacle pulling at Remus's hair and gently stretched it out for Remus to trim. "Have you seen Bethany? Dad said she might be out here."

Remus regarded Harry with shrewd scrutiny, neither making to trim the flitterbloom nor to answer Harry's question.

"What?" Harry asked, plastering an innocent look on his face and pretending that the werewolf's suspicion was entirely off the mark. While he had his reservations about lying to his mother about who he truly was, he had no qualms about lying to Remus. The man did not need to know his origins and would only be a liability, if he ever did find out.  _Best that he never does,_  he thought, as he met the man's distrustful gaze with open trust in his own eyes.

"Nothing," Remus said quickly, after a short pause, and snipped the flitterbloom tentacle that Harry was holding still for him.

Harry released the end of the tentacle that remained attached to the plant and discarded the trimmed end into the bucket beside Remus, which was filled with a purple color potion that would preserve the flitterbloom cuttings.

"Here," Harry said and caught hold of the tentacle Remus was attempting to stretch out and trim at the same time.

"You aren't supposed to be helping me, Harry," Remus chided, as he snipped the tentacle.

"Then you'll owe me one." Harry shrugged and repeated the process of discarding the trimmed end of the tentacle into the bucket, before grabbing another one.

Technically, Remus was right. Harry wasn't supposed to be helping the man, as the Potter family was paying Remus for tending their gardens with monthly Wolfsbane Potion on top of a decent sum of galleons. When Harry and Bethany had been little, Remus had tutored them in math, reading, writing, and geography as well. Now days, Remus tended the Potters' gardens in the afternoons, after having tutored Aries and Mira, Sirius and Mayra's two oldest children, in the mornings. As Remus wouldn't allow James and Sirius to bequeath him a vault full of galleons without having earned it, the setup was an all around win-win scenario. Neither Sirius nor Mayra had time to tutor their children, and Lily greatly disliked the idea of house elves and neither she nor James really had time to tend to their gardens. As a werewolf who found remaining employed to be a difficult task, Remus had more than enough time. The steady work and income assuaged the man's plight, as well as afforded him a decent flat and a comfortable lifestyle.

"How was the continent?" Remus asked, as he trimmed the struggling tentacle that Harry stretched out and held still for him.

"Demanding," Harry grinned through the lie, "but well worth it."

Before Remus could ask anything else, Harry got his answer as to where his sister was in the form of a happy shriek and a 4' 9" blur shooting out the backdoor of house. Bethany jumped down the back stoop with her black hair flying wildly behind her and her hazel eyes bright with excitement.

"Harry!" Bethany exclaimed with delight, as she ran forward and clobbered him with an enthusiastic hug – very nearly knocking them both into the flitterbloom.

"Bethany," Harry greeted warmly and wrapped his arms around her in return.

Upon pulling apart a second later, Bethany stepped back and gave her brother a speculative once over. She lingered on his attire for a moment, however, after seeming to satisfy herself that he was unharmed and wholly intact – or at least appeared to be so – she merely raised a quizzical eyebrow and asked a single question. "What happened to your glasses?"

"I no longer need them." Harry shrugged, passing off his 'improved' eyesight as an inconsequential detail of his healed mind.

"Porteur didn't need glasses," Remus said and regarded Harry with calculating eyes, his suspicions seemingly renewed by the observation.

"No, he didn't," Harry agreed flatly and turned his full attention to Bethany. "Dad wasn't too harsh with you just now?"

Bethany's smile twisted into a scowl and irritation entered her eyes. "He grounded me for a week _–_ a whole  _week!_  – just for having the phonograph turned up too loud for  _his_ liking. I was supposed to go to Demelza's house and stay the night on Wednesday. It's been planned a month – her brother, Kenver, is coming back from his expedition in South America and Mrs. Robins is throwing a big 'Welcome Home' party for him – and now Dad says I can't go!"

"You should have thought of that before you disobeyed your mother's warnings," Remus scolded without sympathy. "You knew your father and brother were coming home this afternoon."

"I've already heard it from Dad. I don't need to hear it from you, Remus," Bethany said, while glaring up at Remus. Upon turning her disgruntled look upon Harry, she took hold of her brother's hand and gave it a pull forward and away from the cottage. "Come on. I have to tell you what Romilda wrote me."

Feeling charitable, Harry extended Remus an apologetic look, as he allowed his sister to drag him away from the man and the partially trimmed flitterbloom.

"He's been so cranky, since you ran away," Bethany said moodily under her breath and huffed irritably. She steered Harry to the right, past the tomato plants that had several green fruits weighing down their leafy branches, and then left towards the far end of the garden. "Not that I blame you, what with them wanting to put you back in St. Mungo's," she hurried on, before looking up at Harry with searching eyes. "You're really okay now?"

"I didn't freak out when you tackled me back there, did I?" Harry asked, disentangling their hands and looping his left arm over her shoulders so that they could better walk side by side down the garden path. His sister leaned into his side with a content sigh.

"No, you didn't." Bethany wrapped her arm around Harry's back. This was familiar to them. They had walked the gardens together, hand in hand or arm in arm, ever since they were little kids. "I'm really happy, Harry. You worried me. Mom wouldn't stop crying, and Dad was horrible to be around. He wouldn't even look for you, you know. He just kept saying that there was nothing that we could do and that we had to trust you to return. Then he and Sirius up and disappeared, and the next thing we knew, you were on the continent seeing some specialist. And now…" she looked up at Harry, "now you're home – healed – just like that."

"The specialist wasn't a healer," Harry admitted, feeling he owed her a semblance of the truth – though definitely not the full truth. "He's a specialist in the Mind Arts." He reached up with his free right hand and tapped the side of his head. "He put things right up here. Before, I was living in two different realities. This one and the one I dreamt about. He healed the chasm between the two. Now, there's only this one and I know what is real and what isn't. It wasn't 'just like that', but he knew what he was doing. That's for sure."

"What are the Mind Arts?" Bethany asked curiously, as they rounded a bird bath at the eastern end of the garden and took off down the center path of the pumpkin patch, being sure not to trip on a few of the long vines that crossed over the path to the opposite side.

"They're something Dad probably doesn't want me telling you about," Harry said honestly.

"Dark Magic?" Bethany said, looking up at Harry hesitantly. They both well knew their father's views on the subject. While Harry had obtain himself leniency from James in exchange for obeying his father's decisions regarding his medical needs and overall safety, James would not be please to catch his two children discussing the Dark Arts in any way, shape, or form.

"Eh…more like almost, but not quite. It's a form of magic that is only ever as sinister as the one wielding it." Harry gave Bethany a reassuring smile. "There aren't a lot of people with true talent for it."  _Only Snape, Dumbledore, Voldemort, me – need I go on…,_  he added cynically inside his mind, but knew that their father would really have his head should he worry Bethany needlessly. "If you're really interested, you could ask Dad about learning Occlumency. It's the defensive side of things. – Anyway, I thought you were going to tell me what Romilda wrote you."

"Oh, you won't believe it," Bethany said, her young mind so easily distracted. "Romilda overheard her grandmother and Neville's Great-Uncle Algie talking about the latest votes for the open spot on the Board of Governors. Guess who is going to be filling the chair – come on guess," she urged, when Harry gave a one shouldered shrug.

"I didn't even know that there was an open chair," Harry said truthfully. He hadn't exactly been keeping up with current events the last few weeks, as he hadn't really had time to pick up a copy of  _The_   _Daily Prophet_ and look it over _._

"You didn't?" Bethany looked puzzled for a moment, before giving a dramatic sigh. "Of course, you didn't," she said and shook her head ruefully. "Okay, so get this: Tuesday, last week there was some high to do meeting of the Professors, the Board of Governors, and the Ministry. They were supposedly coordinating funding or schedules or some such nonsense.  _The Prophet_  didn't really give details on that bit. So, the whole lot are in the middle of this meeting, when…I know his name…he's that Celesta Burke's grandfather –"

"Lord Ainslie Burke," Harry supplied. He knew of the man, though he had only become familiar with Ainslie Burke's descendants in the other world, as the old man had died some time before the war broke out. Upon Ainslie Burke's death, the Burke Estate had been inherited by Lachlan Burke, who had proceeded to fill Voldemort's coffers quite nicely and to Imperius several Ministry officials in the year following Voldemort's rebirth in preparation for Voldemort's takeover of the British Isles.

"Yes, him." Bethany nodded. "He just dropped dead! Can you believe that?" she asked, aghast. "Right in the middle of the meeting, sitting in his chair at the table of the Board of Governors, he just died! Skeeter is having a field day."

Harry hummed. "I can imagine."

"Officially, they're saying that it was stress, but…with who is likely to replace him…" Bethany trailed off meaningfully.

"Who's replacing him?" Harry asked dutifully, knowing that she wanted him to either guess or ask. Gossip was a game to her. A year ago, she wouldn't have cared about what was published by Skeeter in  _The Prophet_ or what Romilda Vane's grandmother and Algie Longbottom were discussing behind closed doors. A year ago, however, she had yet to make friends with Romilda Vane, Demelza Robins, Victoria Frobisher, and Ilene Pennell. The five girls shared a dorm and gossip was apparently their currency with the Vane Heiress cashing in and redistributing the wealth. Even the two biggest gossips in his year, Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil, didn't have the reach throughout Hogwarts that little Romilda had established over the course of her first year.

"Tolus Talvace," Bethany whispered the man's name, as if the very man that she spoke of might hear her and apparate into existence before them.

"As in Gavid and Dunhan Talvace?" Harry asked, halting their leisurely stroll past the belladonna and looking down at Bethany.

Bethany rolled her eyes. "You're so hopeless sometimes, Harry. As in Mayra's father – though I think Gavid and Dunhan are her nephews, aren't they? Do you know them?"

"I know of them," Harry said. "They're old year Slytherins. Gavid will be a 7th year this year, while Dunhan will be a 5th year."

"I don't know many of the older Slytherins," Bethany said thoughtfully and began walking once more, pulling Harry along with her. They round the northeastern corner of the garden and began down a row of sugar snap peas. "The only ones I know are Marcus Flint and Zinnia Parkinson – and the others on their Quidditch team: Miles Bletchley, Chandler Warrington, Peregrine Derrick, and Lucian Bole. Romilda knows a lot of them though. She says most aren't worth the introduction. Did you know that Flint finally graduated last year?"

"Did he?" Harry asked, faking interest and playing dumb.

"Oh, yes," Bethany began, before launching into the tale of Flint's struggles to pass his exams for the second time.

With Bethany sufficiently sidetracked from pursuing the extent of Harry's knowledge on Gavid and Dunhan Talvace, Harry turned his thoughts to the two Slytherins that he had come to know in the other world. While he didn't know much about the Talvace family as a whole, as the two brothers hadn't liked to talk about their past – like everyone else, they had lost far too much, while retaining far too little of their loved ones – the brothers, upon their initial crossing of paths in Denmark, had informed him that they were the last of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Talvace of Britain and had later on, after having traveled together for some weeks, sworn to him their revenge against the Dark Regime for what had happened to their family with a furious passion that had left him with no doubt of their true allegiance. Over the course of the war, he had come to depend and trust the brothers as much as he had depended upon and trusted Ron, as the brother had nearly always been as good as their word, unforeseen circumstances aside.

From his teenage self's knowledge, Harry knew a bit more about the family. They were regarded as supporters of the Dark Arts and of the creed of pure-blood superiority and were known to associate with the Malfoys, Lestranges, Rosiers, and the likes. There was, of course, Mayra's marriage to his godfather nine years ago, after a two year engagement. As far as he knew, however, Mayra didn't share the views of the rest of her family on blood purity. Upon marrying Sirius, she had apprenticed at St. Mungo's of her own volition and her reputation as a healer soon marked her as being fair and just with all her patients. Within the last five years, she had become publicly, as well as privately, estranged from her parents and her eldest brother and sister-in-law. Harry did remember meeting her younger brother once, a few years ago. He couldn't remember the man's name, but the man had seemed decent enough, if a bit jokey about his sister allowing half-bloods, a half-breed, and a muggle-born into her home. Other than that one event, though, he couldn't remember ever meeting any other members of Mayra's family and had practically forgotten that Mayra's family name had been Talvace.

As for the Gavid and Dunhan of this world, his teenage self had kept an eye on the two, but had never approached them. Unlike the Talvace brothers in the other world, who had been forced to endure tragedy and face the resulting devastation of their beliefs being put to action, the brothers in this world were still very much in belief of their superior blood status and the liberty of their family's wealth. Not to mention, the two were much younger than the 20 and 23 years that he had initially come to know them. It was a shame, as both had been highly skilled in combat and warding in the other world, as well as good friends of his. He could only hope that his actions in this world would pull them to him, rather than push them towards the Dark Regime.

"Are you even listening to me?" Bethany demanded with a twinge of annoyance and scowled at her brother, upon giving him a nudge in the side.

"Sorry, I was just thinking about the prospects of Flint as the next Knight Bus conductor." Harry grinned down at his sister with mirth, picturing the bulking form of Marcus Flint dressed in the violent violet Knight Bus uniform and attempting to quote the standard greeting to all stranded witches and wizards through a crooked front-tooth smile that had no place on his sallow face, which was better fit for the Slytherin's ugly sneer.

Bethany grinned as well at the image her brother's words created in her mind, her eyes alight with shared mirth, before she broke out in full laughter. "Oh – I should – tell Romilda and – the girls!" she exclaimed, as she giggled joyously.

Before Harry or Bethany could come up with an even more hilarious future career for the dimwitted ex-Quidditch captain, a call from the direction of the cottage caught their attention.

"Harry! Bethany!" James yelled from the back stoop and motioned for them to join him inside.

"Be there in a sec," Harry yelled back. He steered his sister right and up the center garden path back towards the cottage, as he watch their father disappear back inside.

Upon entering the cottage and quickly washing up for lunch, their father informed them that their mother was having a kip and that it would just be them and Remus for the meal. Harry merely nodded and joined his father, Bethany, and Remus at the kitchen table. As he loaded up his plate with his mother's meat pie and another plate with a small salad, he grinned, the feeling of home washing over him.


	15. Kill Wards

Normalcy, Harry decided, was the true enemy of a fighter's soul. It was stagnate, monotonous, and trying in a way so very different to the labor of an objective driven life. How his teenage self had reveled in long summer days spent at home with an adventure book in hand or lazed away with quality time spent with his family, he could no longer comprehend. Yes, he appreciated the downtime and the time spent with his family. He did, in fact, need the time to recuperate and fully reassert his sense of self. However, he had found himself restless within a mere few days of being home.

Rather quickly, his mother had picked up on his inclination to scan his eyes about his surroundings, as she or Bethany spoke with him, as well as the way that he would get a faraway look in his eyes whenever he was left to his own devises. Bethany had not been blind to his restlessness either, though she seemed to attribute it to a new quirk of his personality. While their mother had fretted over him and the changes she saw in him, Bethany had just took the changes that she observed in stride. As for his father, Harry had not seen much of the man over the last week, as Scrimgeour had his father working double shifts to make up for the week that the man had taken off to 'vacation on the continent'. Apparently, Scrimgeour was not sympathetic to family plight.

Harry huffed a breath, into the cool, star blanketed night. He had spent his week at home. He had held off on all that needed to be done, in order to give himself and his family time to adjust to who he had become, as well as to establish a small buffer between his recovery from his supposed mental illness and the beginnings of his machination in the not-yet-begun war. With the week having finally passed, however, now – and for the foreseeable future, until Voldemort's soul was fully eradicated from this world – was the time for him to act. He was finally free to shed normalcy and do what he did best.

If events followed as they had in the other world, Harry knew that he would have a little less than a year before the Dark Lord would return. That meant that he had a little less than a year to prepare and put in place as many countermeasures as he could to counteract the Dark Regime's agenda in taking over the British Isles, before moving on to take over Europe, for he knew without a doubt that tracking down and destroying all seven of Voldemort's horcruxes in so little time was a fool's errand at best and a costly venture, paid for in innumerable lives, at worst. Europe could not afford for him not to be objective in his actions and not to know and obey his limits. While tracking down the horcruxes was a matter of grave importance, he knew all too well that it was not a simple matter, as at the current moment, all seven horcruxes' locations and very existence were unconfirmed and his ability to lay his hand on even one of them was dubious and, in some cases, impossible.

No, tonight Harry was not in pursuit of the pieces of Voldemort's fractured soul. In fact, tonight the thing that he sought was a far more tangible danger than any one of the Dark Lord's horcruxes alone. What he sought was the keystone to a sleeping power that expanded across all of Britain, just lying in wait to be activated – a promise of widespread devastation written into the rune stones that define its bounds and the lethal, very nearly tyrannical force that it possessed.

Upon reaching a great iron gate, Harry looked up the long winding, forest lined path behind him, his eyes piercing through the darkness in search of hidden dangers. The silhouetted branches of the trees swayed ever so slightly in the soft breeze whispering its way through the Cotswolds. An owl hooted off in the distance with another hoot answering its call, as the croaking of frogs and the song of crickets played merrily in background. For all appearances, there was nothing present that was out of the ordinary. Satisfied that he was still very much alone and that nothing lurked in the underbrush, preparing to attack him now that he was stationary and no longer on the move, he reached out to the lock baring his progression. With the brushing of his finger tips on the cold metal surface, a jolt of magic rushed through him, before receding back into the lock and altering the owner of the small, tucked away castle; the turrets of which he could see reaching up to the full moon high overhead just beyond the bend of trees up the way.

With a faint  _pop!_  a fraction of a second later, a bedraggled looking creature of a short stature with floppy ears and a humanoid posture emerged into existence a few feet away from Harry, just inside the gate. Its large eyes goggled at him warily, upon it conjuring a light to see his form more clearly in the shadows cast by the moonlight and the thick, intertwined iron bars of the gate.

"Master expects no one," the house-elf said uncertainly. "Who is you, mister? What does you want? Master wants tos know, afore he decides tos lets you in or not."

"I do not seek entrance," Harry told the elf. "I seek your master. Tell Lord Black that his assistance is required in a matter of utmost importance."

The elf hesitated a moment, looking at Harry expectantly. When Harry still did not give his name and gave no indication that he would, it bowed and, with another  _pop!_ , Harry was once more left alone with only the sound of the night for company.

His wait was not long, which pleased Harry greatly, as well as amused him. His godfather was still pulling on his cloak, as he rounded the path descending from the castle and wearily marched his way down to the gate. At the sight of Harry, a pronounced scowl formed the man's lips.

"What the hell, Harry?" Sirius demanded and made to unlock the gate.

"It's not my fault that your elf didn't recognize me." Harry grinned. "It's probably better that it didn't, actually."

"And why's that?" Sirius asked, his grey eyes flashing with annoyance. With the gate unlocked, he stepped through it, though he hesitated in closing it behind him and held it open, as he looked down at Harry. "What are you even doing here? Do your parents know where you are?"

"Touchy,  _touchy_ ," Harry chided; the grin never leaving his face. "I didn't wake you, did I?"

Sirius gave him a sardonic look. "No, of course not, who in their right mind would be sleeping at one o'clock in the morning!"

Harry chuckled. "Come, we've got business," he said and turned to head back down the winding path. A large hand caught his upper right arm in a firm grip and pulled him back around forcibly. He gritted his teeth in response, fighting the instinctual urge to grab his godfather's hand and break every last finger, before drawing his wand and cursing the man. He did note with pleasure, however, that in grabbing his arm, his godfather had allowed the gate to swing closed.

"Harry," Sirius said seriously, regarding Harry with disapproval. "Do you parents know where you are?"

"Dad's working the night shift. Mum is brewing the base for her next batch of Wolfsbane. Bethany is at the Robins' house. No one, except you, knows where I'm at, and if you don't let go of me, I'll curse you, wipe your memory, and do what needs to be done on my own."

The matter-of-fact manner in which Harry spoke mixed with the promise to deliver on his threat that showed plainly in his infuriated eyes caused Sirius to release his hold on his godson, as if burned, and take a cautious step back from the teen.

A weighed silence passed between godfather and godson, before Sirius cleared his throat and seemed to come to a decision. "Where are we going?"

"That's not something that you need to know," Harry said, turning for a second time to head back down the path the way that he had come. Confident, this time, that Sirius would follow him without further interruption.

"At least tell me what we will be doing," Sirius said, as he hurried to fall into step beside Harry.

"You will be maintaining a diffuser stone. What I will be doing isn't something that you need to know."

Harry scanned his eyes about the underbrush lining the gravel leading away from Castle Black, continually checking for any signs of life outside of Sirius and himself. The full moon was not a good night to be out and about, but the power of the full moon was a promising means to locate the keystone that would power the other minor rune stones spread across Britain and would ultimately define the not-yet-activated Kill Wards. Back in the other world, he had had entire teams of warders and curse-breakers to trace the magic of the Kill Wards back to their individual keystones and figure out how to destroy the keystones in a relatively safe manner. In this world, he did not have such a luxury and had to work within his limits. An energy sourcing ritual performed on the full moon was the quickest and dirtiest way to discover the keystone's location, though highly costly and dangerous for a person not accustom to controlling and directing such a powerful flow of magic and only moderately costly, yet still highly dangerous for a person who was.

Harry and Sirius walked in silence for a full five minutes, before Harry felt them pass beyond the anti-apparation and anti-portkey wards protecting his godfather's property. He drew them both to a stop and offered his hand to Sirius. "We'll be apparating from here."

Sirius reached out a place his hand in Harry's outstretched hand without question or protest.

The moment that he felt his godfather's warm flesh against his own, Harry shifted his focus from his surroundings to a very specific set of coordinates. With a turn on his heel, the suffocating feeling of apparation consumed him and, a fraction of a second later, the cool, mountain air of the Scottish Highlands was wiping at his face and refreshing his lungs.

Just as Harry remembered the site being described to him in the other world by the team of ward specialist that he had working in the British Isles, a small valley spread between the mountainside that Sirius and he stood upon and the peak jutting into the night sky opposite them. Junipers and towering oak trees litter the valley floor below with wild grass creeping up the bowled sides of the narrow glen. At the center of the mass of trees was an oblong lake that reflected the stars and moon and the wispy clouds passing high overhead. An island protruded out of the calm, glass like surface near the lake's northwestern edge.

Harry breathed in deeply, standing as still as stone, as he scented the air and listened intently to the sounds of the valley. He grimace at the abrasive tang of lethal, immensely powerful magic that was only just detectable, if one were purposefully attempting to distinguish its odor. The silence that met his ears, outside his and Sirius's breaths and the soft rustling of the wild grass in the light wind sweeping up from the south, did nothing to alleviate the tension coiling his muscles or to assuage his suspicion of the problematic turn that his and his godfather's night had just taken.

Without a word of his worries to his godfather, Harry set off towards his target – intent on his objective, as he did not have time to rehash his plan and wait for the next full moon. By the next full moon, the opportunity to secure Bill Weasley's assistance in decoding the keystone with minimal suspicion would have passed, as the Quidditch World Cup and his ability to obtain the keystone prior to the international event would have passed as well. If he did not know of the power of the Kill Wards and to fear them as he did, he would have turned back, instead proceeded forward, and allowed himself time to build up his strength to face the deadly power lying before him and to come up with another way to acquire Bill's assistance sometime over the coming year. He did, however, know what the Kill Wards were capable of and knew the danger – intimately – that they posed to Britain and would later pose to Europe, if he failed to destroy them before they were activated. He could not help but feel pressured to proceed, as his gut told him that to turn back and allow an additional month to pass without any concrete effort put towards the Kill Wards' destruct would be to condemn this world to a horrible fate.

Harry's boot crunched noisily through the dry grass and scuffed loudly against the rocks that made up the pathless terrain down into the moonlit valley. He could hear his godfather's footfalls following behind him, echoing back at them off of the opposing mountain face much the same as his did.

"Is there any reason that I shouldn't light my wand?" Sirius asked, upon coming to a particularly treacherous decline that had required Harry to slow in his pace and proceed down the mountainside with sideways steps.

"No," Harry said, carefully testing the stability of the terrain underfoot with his every step. "But I wouldn't expect that even a light spell would work at this stage."

Harry did not need to turn around and look at Sirius to know that his godfather's face had taken on a perplexed grimace.  _Three…two…one…_

"Why?"

 _And there it is,_ Harry thought with a faint hint of amusement at his godfather's predictability. Before he could answer his godfather, however, a wave of dizziness struck him, sending his head and stomach swimming – the disorientation threatening to send him tumbling down the mountainside. A strong hand caught his arm just time, steadying him and preventing his head first dive down the mountainside.

"Har–" Sirius began with concern and took at step closer to his godson to better support the teen. His inquiry cut off abruptly, as his breath was stolen from his lungs and a wave nausea very nearly caused him to double over and lose his own footing. His worry for his godson was the only thing that save him, as it strength him against the sudden sickness.

Harry could feel Sirius's entire frame trembling through the hand still gripping his arm and knew that their position was precarious. Slamming Occlumency against the disorientation afflicting him and reinforcing his strength of will, he glared down into the valley, his eyes focusing on the small island at the northwestern edge of the lake.  _500 yards to the edge of the wards…perhaps an additional 700 to the stone,_  he calculated the latter distance, while knowing the former distance without a shred of doubt.

"A light spell definitely won't work," Harry said, a faint mixture of anger and agitation lacing his voice, as he forced himself to stand with strength. "You can wait further up the mountainside, if you want to, Sirius. You don't need to go further, not really. The diffuser stone won't work with these wards."

"No!" Sirius said, his voice surprisingly strong for a man standing on shaking legs. With two infusing breaths, he released his hold on Harry all together and stood at his full height, swaying only slightly with the remnants of his nausea. "You're not going down there by yourself. You asked for my help and you're going to get it. Just tell me what you need from me, in order to do whatever it is that you intend to do."

"The force of the sickness will get worse," Harry warned, looking up at Sirius. "How good is your Occlumency?"

"Good enough," Sirius said assuredly.

"We'll see," Harry said and started down the mountainside once more.

By the time that godfather and godson had reached the tight cropping of trees at the base of the valley and what Harry pronounced to be the edge of the wards, both were exceedingly pale and looked worse for wear.

Harry steeled himself, as he stepped up to the edge of the wards, knowing that he was about to feel a whole lot worse than he already was. With his right hand outstretched, he closed his eyes and fully opened himself up to the vicious magic radiating off of the wards. Revulsion and the urge to rid himself of his stomach contents hit him with such a fury that choking bile was half way up his throat before he could even attempt to consider quelling his body's reaction. With his head spinning anew, as he had dropped every last shred of mental protection against the sickness, he could only bend over and do his best not to sick up on his boots. He vaguely felt feel his entire body shaking, as well as his godfather rubbing soothing circles into his back and assisting him in remaining upright. Again and again, his stomach contract against his will, until there was nothing left within it and he was reduced to dry heaves.

"Harry? Harry?"

Harry ignored the urgent inquiry of his godfather, as his weak knees gave out. Crouched with his elbows braced against his quaking knees and head braced in his hands, he forced his mind to muddle through the disorientation and sickness affecting him and focus on the magic assaulting him.  _Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out,_  he chanted in his mind in an effort to sooth his rolling stomach and befuddled thoughts. With his awareness somewhat restored, he was able to focus on the feeling of the magic from the wards steadily washing over him, as if it were a heartbeat – pulse after pulse creeping across his skin in a rhythm not-unlike the ebb and flow of ocean waves crashing against rocky shores.

Harry groaned, knowing what he had to do next, yet dreading it with every fiber of his being. He allowed himself an addition ten minutes to accustom himself to the hostile environment created by the magic pulsating off of the wards. Slowly, as the ten minutes passed, he was able to stop his body's quivering, though he wasn't able to do much for the way that his head continued to pound and his stomach clenched upon itself.

"Harry?"

"I'm all right," Harry said, this time managing to answer to his godfather's inquiry.

"No, you most certainly aren't," Sirius said from this crouched position beside Harry, his hand still on Harry's upper arm and keeping the teen from falling forward into his own bile. "You were sicking up blood, Harry. You're not all right."

"Side effect," Harry said dismissively, while bracing his hands on his knees and pushing himself up to stand.

Sirius stood with him, his grip tightening the slightest bit in preparation to catch his godson should the effort prove to be too much for the teen.

"I'm all right," Harry reiterated, placing his hand over his godfather's hand on his arm and looking up at the man with confidence and stability in his stance.

Reluctantly, Sirius released his grip.

Harry gave his godfather's hand a reassuring squeeze, before stepping away from the man and turning towards the wards. He traveled several paces along the edge of the wards with somewhat wobbly steps in his magic addled state. After five paces, he outstretched his right hand towards the wards for a second time. This time, he was already accustomed to the sickness and his mind was already open to the magic radiating off of wards. He stepped closer to the wards, as he continued along his path, his mind focus on one objective.

 _This would be so much easier with active magic,_  Harry thought despondently, as he felt his fingers inch closer to the chill of the wards. Already, it was as if the very tips of his fingers had been dipped into a glacial stream. He knew that soon enough that he would be touching solid ice in a metaphorical sense – solid ice that would freeze him in an instant, stopping his heart mid-beat and his lungs mid-breath, if he let it. If he was able to use active magic, or wand magic as referred to by the uneducated, he would not need to tempt fate at all in such a manner, in order to locate a gap between the rune stones maintaining the wards. Unfortunately, with Kill Wards, the only form of magic that would work within 500 yards of their perimeter was passive magic and he wasn't quite good enough at utilizing passive magic to detect wards, active rune stones, and the like without direct contact, magic on skin.

It was a truly unsettling feeling, knowing that by necessity, he had to allow the very thing that could kill him to invade his being. As he pushed his hand deeper into the ice stream and allowed the magic to flood him, he closed his eyes and focused his thoughts on life. The memory of walking through the garden with Bethany not a week ago filled his mind: her vibrant face, the sun's warmth on his skin, the vivid colors of the plant life that they had passed on their leisurely stroll, Bethany's laugh ring true in the warm breeze of the afternoon, the sweet aroma of the flowers and his mother's cooking filling his lungs. The memory was so tangible in his mind that he almost felt as if he had returned to the moment. He could feel the press of his sister thin arm against his back, the grip of her dainty hand on his waist, and the press of her warm body along his side.

In a jolting, terrifying moment, Harry felt his fingertips press against ice and the memory was very nearly ripped away from him to be replaced with death – a cold, cruel, icy current attempting to penetrate his soul and still the vital functions of his body that provided him with continued life. He gasped and shook, his heart faltering in his chest and his lungs struggling to expand with the breath that would sustain him. The sickness twisted his insides upon themselves and threatened to split his head in two, causing him to fall forward and press his palm flat against the icy surface that he could feel, yet could not see.

"No," Harry refused through gritted teeth, as he felt the magic pulling at his soul, attempting to steal it from him and make everything that he was and would ever be a part of the ice. "No."

With great effort, Harry clawed at the memory of life that was quickly slipping away from him, desperately fighting against the chill of the ice consuming him. As Bethany's laughing face swam into his vision, he latched onto it with all that he was and poured his full concentration into rebuilding the safety of the memory around him. It was faint at first, but the musical laughter that was uniquely Bethany rang true in his ears and with it he felt the soft afternoon breeze brush against his face. The abrasive tang of death subsided, as it was replaced with the sweet aroma of flowers and fresh baked meat pie. At last, the sun claimed the clear, blue sky, providing him with its warmth and infusing him with life. There was a distinct crackling of fracturing ice, as the last vestiges of the frigid hold that the magic had on his soul was broken and fell away.

Harry let out a slow breath, holding the memory of life in his mind – a part of him acknowledging that the strength of this particular set of the Kill Wards was not as strong as the ones that had isolated entire nations in the other world. The grip of death had left him far quicker and much easier than the last time that he had done the same outside France.  _Fewer sacrifices,_  he thought with certainty.  _And fewer trapped soul since their creation, if any at all._

Very slowly, making sure that the memory did not slip away from him for a second time, Harry allowed awareness of his surrounding and the magic that he was touching to come to him. With caution, he opened his eyes, finding the moonlit forest before him superimposed with the image of his family's back garden. The cool wind from the south mixed with the warm afternoon breeze and the silence of the night echoed with Bethany's merry chatter.

Harry smiled, feeling the rush of the knowledge that he had control of an immense power. The magic of the Kill Wards pulsing through him and connecting him to the wards was his to tap into and his to command. While he couldn't destroy the wards or magically circumvent them without altering the rune stones powering the wards, he could trace the magic and locate the rune stones.

Wrapping the memory of his afternoon with Bethany in the back garden firmly around himself, he focused on the feeling of the ice barrier beneath his palm. It wasn't truly ice, he knew. It was something far more disturbing and sinister, but he'd rather not think about the trapped human souls woven into the impenetrable wall of deadly magic that gave the magic the true feeling of death, while assisting in fueling the magic of the wards with their life's blood, magic, and their very essence. He had long suspected that the memories of the sacrifices fueled the malevolence of the wards as well, as he had been told that Voldemort had used the blood of 100 convicted men to create the Kill Wards over Romania in the other world and those wards had been particularly fierce. He alone had been strong enough to confront them.

 _Just like Voldemort to make life difficult. Why not ward his inactive rune stones with a contained version of their total creation?_  Harry thought with irritation, as he reached out with his senses towards the wards, being sure to intertwine his will with the will of magic from the wards already pulsing through him. Dealing with Kill Wards was very much like dealing with a human mind. They had their own awareness and did not depend upon their creator for instruction – only abiding by the rune stones that define them – which gave them a very human like quality in that they were almost an independent entity; so alive, in a sense, that their defenses would lash out discriminatorily, cutting down a rabbit for barely brushing their surface with its tail hairs, yet allowing a person, such as himself, to trick them into believe that he or she was a part of their total make up.

Harry knew that as far as the wards were concerned, they believed that they had succeeded in collecting his soul, despite the fact that he had retained his life and his soul continued to inhabit his body. As long as his will appeared to align with their own, they would continue to ignore his intrusion, until the moment that he attempted to break his connection with them.

 _And for the easy part,_  Harry thought to himself, as he juggled the mental tasks of concentrating on the chilling flow of magic beneath his palm, keeping his memory of life clear in his mind, and sustaining his strength against the sickness inflicted by his proximity to the wards.

Harry shut his eyes and breathed deeply. Focusing a good majority of his concentration on the magic flowing through him and into the ward, he allowed it to submerse his overall awareness in its current. Instantly, he could feel the way that the magic spiraled upwards and followed along a determined path with one central focus point as its destination.  _The keystone,_  he acknowledged. Just as he had suspected, the keystone was roughly 700 yards west-northwest of his current position. He didn't doubt for a second that its resting place was beneath the island of the lake.

Locating the keystone, however, was not Harry's objective. He needed to know where the outlying minor rune stones were. To this point, he focused on reversing the flow of the magic. It was a delicate and complex process, but just like he was capable of leading a human mind to a specific memory without the person noticing his manipulations, even if the person was a decent Occlumens, the Kill Wards were susceptible to his will all the same. It was one of their two weaknesses: their human like quality. It was the souls trapped within them that gave them such strength and power, as well as such a weakness.

Through careful manipulation of the icy current of magic, Harry began to confuse the wards of their direction. He wasn't entirely sure how long his efforts took him, but soon enough, the current reversed tentatively. As he threw power into the new direction of the current, its pace picked up with more confidence. It was with surprise that he only picked up on three outlying points. The configuration was weak. Even with its contained area, he had been prepared for at least the five point configuration that was used as a standard for most ward schemes.

 _North-northwest._ Harry pinpointed the closest rune stone.  _Southwest._  He pinpointed the second closest rune stone. Fifteen paces to his left, along the outer wall of the wards, and he would be at the mid-point between the two. From that point, he could exploit the Kill Wards' second weakness and get on with his night.

 _And now for the hard part,_  Harry thought, as he began to pull his awareness away from the wards and focus a majority of his concentration on his memory of life. This was going to hurt.


	16. A Bad Job

Harry fell to the ground screaming, pain pounding through him so intensely that he was lost in it, wholly incoherent of his surroundings. There wasn’t any part of him that didn’t hurt, that didn’t feel as if acid had burned through his veins and corroded his muscles and bones and ate through his internal organs. He could do nothing to hold back his screams, just as he could do nothing but continue to attempt to employ Occlumency to block out the throbbing, unending ache consuming him.

Using one’s physical being to channel large amounts of magic passively was always a hazardous affair. There was always the risk of overtaxing one’s innate magic, body, or both, which often resulted in unpleasant side effects, such as fatigue, the shakes, a skull splitting headache, and, in the worst cases, permanent mental or internal injury followed up by death. The art of channeling magic in such a manner without doing oneself harm was a learned one. With active magic, the added focus of a wand, staff, or an enchanter’s crystal greatly assisted in controlling the magic flowing through one’s system, allowing a witch or wizard to dictate how powerful their spells will be and, in general, to avoid overtaxing his or her system – acts of stupidly aside, of course. Passive magic, on the other hand, took a great deal of effort and skill to not only control, but use without outright doing oneself in. If one lost control of the magic or channeling the magic became too much for one to handle, there was rarely a clear way to cut off the flow of magic and there would be no assistance from a outside focuser to help in bring the magic back under control. Once the magic was out of one’s control, usually, the only option was to ride the magic out and pray to whatever god or gods that one might worship to be strong enough to survive the rampaging magic.

While Harry hadn’t quite lost control of the magic of the wards – not until the very last possible second of physical contact with the wards at the very least – he felt like he had lost control of it for a significant length of time, as the only way that he knew of to escape the wards with his life was to break the wards’ hold on him as quickly as he could possible do so. He had had rush the magic of the wards out his body, using what little free magic lingered in the air and earth around him, only to channel the free magic back out of him just as quickly to avoid losing control of the magic that he was work with too soon. It wasn’t necessarily that he had channeled too much magic for him to handle. He had simply done it too fast. Not to mention, the sinister nature of the wards combined with their final attempt to pull him into death just as he had broke contact with them, hadn’t assist him in the least.

_Smack!_

Harry’s screams cut off and he drew in a jagged gasp, as the physical sensation of a large hand slamming across his cheek rocked through him. Suddenly, with the new throb of pain in cheek upsetting the status quo of the ache consuming him, he was aware of the chill of the night on his skin, the pulsing, deadly magic radiating off of the wards not feet away from him, and the fact he was lying on a very uncomfortable patch of grass that was knotted with roots and with what felt like several sharp stones, which were protruding into his back. Not entirely certain of when he had closed his eyes, he blinked his stinging eyes open, banishing the last vestiges of his isolated world of pain, to find the blurry, starry night overhead and his godfather’s hazy, worry filled and stricken face hovering mere inches from his own.

“Harry – _damn it!_ – answer me!” Sirius practically yelled, while giving Harry’s shoulders a vigorous shake. “Harry!”

With pain still pounding in his veins with his every heartbeat and now the throbbing where Sirius’s hand had made contact with his cheek, the shacking of his shoulders was doing nothing for his state. His reaction to his godfather’s assault, Harry felt, was well warranted and hardly to be helped, as it was as much instinctual as it was a conscious reaction.

“Bloody hell! What the fuck was that for?” Sirius cursed, drawing away from Harry with a bloodied nose, which was the result of him having caught Harry’s right hook square in the face.

“N-now we’re eve-ven,” Harry grunted out and reached up to hold his throbbing head, hoping that the world would stop spinning just long enough for him to focus on his Occlumency properly.

“Like hell we are,” Sirius growled, and before Harry could as much as protest, he had hauled the teen to his feet.

It took Harry a moment to work through the dizzying sensation of being brought to stand so quickly, the pain afflicting every part of his body, and the lingering sickness threatening his stomach with another round of dry heaves to realize that he and Sirius were moving and that Sirius wasn’t helping him walk, but had rather hoisted him around the middle against his hip and was practically carrying.

“Let go!” Harry demanded furiously and made to elbow his godfather in the side, thoroughly annoyed with his predicament and the uselessness of even attempting active magic at the current moment. A hex or two would have handled the situation quite nicely.

“No,” Sirius refused, gritting his teeth against the brunt of Harry’s bony elbow to his abdomen.

“Sirius, stop fucking around,” Harry said, as he continued to attempt to escape his godfather’s ironclad hold, wiggling and straining against the man.

“We’re going home,” Sirius said resolutely and gave no quarter, as he carrier Harry farther away from the Kill Wards and along the narrow bend of the glen to the north, following a shallow stream.

“No, we aren’t!” Harry put all the strength that he had into his struggle against his godfather’s hold, while mentally cursing the weakness of his teenage body and his weakened state. He was going have to do something about this body’s lack of muscle and stamina. In the other world, even with all that he’d done and suffered, he would have had Sirius out cold by now. Then again, in the other world Sirius was dead and had been for several years, plus no one in their right mind would have attempted to pick up Porteur Demort and haul him around like a rag doll, while dictating their destination and ignoring a direct command to release him, but that was beside the point. “Sirius, you are going to severely regret this, if you do not put me down – _NOW!_ ”

“Sorry, kid, godfatherly duties and all,” Sirius said unconcernedly, his pace faltering and steps scuffing on a few loose rocks near the edge of the stream, as he adjusted and then tightened his hold against Harry’s attempted to gain leverage in pushing away from him by twisting to wedge his elbow between their bodies. “You’re going to live to see your fourteenth birthday and many more birthdays after that, if I have anything to say about it. You’re not killing yourself tonight. I won’t allow it.”

“I’m not trying to kill myself. I’m trying to ensure that you and your wife and children live to see the new millennia!” Harry snapped back irritably. “But if you want to perish at Voldemort’s hand, please do be my guest and apparate us out of here as soon as you can.”

There was a moment’s pause and then Sirius had Harry back on his feet and standing in front of him on the loose rock by the quietly trickling stream. The man’s grip on Harry’s upper arms, as he held Harry in place facing him, was just as firm and unyielding as his grip had been around the teen’s middle a moment prior, as he had held off against Harry’s attempts to escape him.

Sirius’s eyes were grave and shimmered a dull gray in the moonlit, as he gazed down at Harry. The spark of optimism and life that Harry had known the man to possess more often than not was nowhere to be found. “Just how crucial is your success tonight?” he asked, the words strained, yet deadly serious.

“Somewhere along the line of hundreds to thousands of lives verses millions of lives,” Harry said, his own face marred with the gravity of the knowledge that he possessed in regard to the possible future that this world would face should he fail in his mission to dismantle the Kill Wards.

“You nearly died back there, Harry,” Sirius said, his voice tight with grief and concern. “For moment…I-I thought that you had. You all but stopped breathing – you do realize that, don’t you?”

“I know what I’m doing, Sirius. Trust me.” Harry forced himself to pull himself together and look as confident as he felt about his capabilities. Sure he was still in a significant amount of pain, felt half-sick, and was shaking with the raw adrenaline pumping through his veins, as his body attempted to combat the onslaught of pain and general unpleasantness assaulting him, but all that had no bearing on what he knew that he was capable of. He just needed a few minutes to get his Occlumency fully in order and he would be good to go another round, so to speak.

Harry _had_ endured and fought actual battles in the other world, when he was in a much worse condition. In fact, with over 250 yards of distance now between him and the edge of the Kill Wards, Harry’s mind felt significantly clearer of the wards’ influence and, with each passing second, the pain from rapidly detaching himself from the Kill Wards was naturally lessening. He, after all, was well practiced at burning magic through his system without doing himself too much lasting damage, as well as well practiced at confronting various strengths of Kill Wards and these Kill Wards had most definitely been much weaker than what he was used to. Their weakness, however, did not at all disappoint him and suited him more than fine, as he was weaker – physically at least – compared to any other time that he’d went up against a set of Kill Wards in the other world.

“I won’t actually be messing around with the wards anymore tonight,” Harry said, upon noting that Sirius didn’t look very convinced of his previous statement. “I promise, Sirius. I’m more than capable of handling getting past the wards without having to expose myself to them again.”

“The only way to get past wards is to go through them or to dismantle them to their very core,” Sirius said knowingly, his gaze accusatory.

Harry grinned at Sirius with mischief, for it had been mischief enabled by the ample use of a certain Marauder’s Map in the other world that had ultimately led him, the Weasley twins, and Bill to coming up with a way to get around the Kill Wards…get around a good majority of wards actually, once they knew where the wards were anchored and plotted out the weakest point for a breach. The wards protecting Hogwarts, for example, currently had seven breaches in their defense, five of which had been purposefully installed by the Founders. “Bypassing wards doesn’t always meaning going through them or dismantling them, Sirius, though with a majority of wards, I do admit, it is often quicker or much safer to do so.”

Sirius raised an inquiring eyebrow, still looking skeptical that Harry’s promise not to mess about with the Kill Wards anymore that night was legitimate, though the strength of his hold on Harry had lessened by a barely noticeable amount of pressure.

“Have you ever wondered why medieval castles were constructed with moats around them?” Harry asked, deciding that reasoning with his godfather with logic and facts would get Sirius’s cooperation faster than just blatantly giving his godfather the solution to the wards and hoping that the man would take his word for it and allow him to get on with doing what had to be done. “You know, back in the days when our existence wasn’t a secret and kings and lords often had a trusted wizard or two on retainer to defend them and their people from the magicals that roamed the lands.”

“They were used as a preventative against their enemies storming their walls,” Sirius said with a hint of uncertainty, as if understood that his answer wasn’t the answer Harry was looking for, even though it was the correct answer to the question that Harry had posed him.

“That was the moats overall function,” Harry agreed. “However, I ask that you take into account the elements: air, water, earth, and fire, and their magical properties. The first two: air and water, conduct magic with relative easy, while earth can only conduct powerful magic and only to a certain extent. Fire, on the other hand, is not very conductive of magic at all and is better for absorbing magic and altering its energy to feed its flame. Am I wrong in assuming that you are aware of this?”

Sirius gave Harry a look that clear said that he was and that he wasn’t entertained by the impromptu lecture on magical theory.

“Right then,” Harry said and continued as if Sirius wasn’t glaring at him. “Ancient wizards capitalized on the moats around their king’s or lord’s strongholds, using their watery depths to extend their ward schemes past ground level and deeper into the earth. The moats served to not only dissuaded muggles from tunneling under or merely scaling over the medieval king’s and lord’s castle walls, but to dissuaded wizards from attempting to circumvent the protections placed over the strongholds by merely tunneling under the wards and proceeding to bridge across the moat and blast away the castle walls. 12 feet isn’t much digging, but 30 to 50 feet is a whole lot of digging and takes time, even with magical means, which made such activity all the more easily and more likely to be noticed by a king’s guard and put to a stop, before the breach actually occurred.”

“That’s your plan?” Sirius asked, taking from Harry’s lecture what Harry had intended for him to take. “You’re going to tunnel under the wards?”

“They’re anchored to rune stones,” Harry said, his tone suggesting what he was suggesting was perfectly reasonable. “While that makes them powerful and long lasting and means that they are nearly unbreakable without physically getting at the rune stones themselves, it still doesn’t change the fact that those stones cannot be buried more than 12 ft below ground. It also doesn’t change the fact that the greater distance from the stone that one digs, the less depth the magic of the wards is actually able to penetrate the earth.”

“Tunneling under wards is a myth, Harry,” Sirius very nearly yelled with frustration and disbelief, but manage to keep enough control of his emotions not to. “It doesn’t work and has never worked. It is not possible. I never would have taken you to believe something so foolish.”

“Do you know where that supposed myth came from?” Harry asked, regarding his godfather with patience.

Sirius frowned and narrowed his eyes at Harry, but gave no verbal answer.

“ _Us_ , Sirius,” Harry said, indicating between him and Sirius. “We, wizards, started that lie and now, centuries later, we accept it as fact. I can only guess that our ancestors got tired of digging moats and constructing their homes on islands or over lakes and rivers, or by doing so it had become impractical and near impossible to tunnel under wards and that was how the myth got started. If you really don’t want to take my word for it, just consider the secret passageways in and out of Hogwarts. How many times did you and Dad use them to sneak down to the Hog’s Head without ever getting caught or anyone ever being the wiser that you bypassed the castle wards? – because that is what you were doing. You bypassed the wards every single time that you used one of those tunnels.”

“Those tunnels were designed –” Sirius began in protest.

“Yeah, we thought so too,” Harry interrupt, “until desperate times called for desperate measures, and we were willing to try anything to escape a premature grave. There is nothing but mounds of earth that prevent the wards protecting Hogwarts from penetrating every single one of those secret passageways. Done right, tunneling under wards becomes a very simple matter.”

Sirius glanced back over his shoulder to where the invisible Kill Wards radiated their deadly magic out into the night. There was conflict visible on his face, as if he wanted to finish dragging Harry home, yet a part of him – the part that wasn’t Harry’s godfather or James’s best friend – understood and accepted the situation without the bias of fear, concern, and responsibility that came with his position as the adult in this situation.

“Look,” Harry said with a sigh, “in about 300 more yards magic shouldn’t be a problem and we’ll be far enough away from the wards that we won’t really feel them. I’ll take a breather and regroup, before setting about breaching the wards. Is that a good enough compromise? I’d rather not argue about this anymore than we already have.” _Or escalate this to a physical fight,_ went unsaid, but the determined look that he gave his godfather said as much.

“James is going to kill me,” Sirius muttered and reluctantly released his hold on Harry, before motioning for Harry to lead the way.

Harry grinned. “Who says Dad ever has to know?”

They stumbled up the bank of the stream, until they reached a relatively flat grassy area that was dotted with a few trees that Harry felt was far enough away from the wards. As Sirius looked the area over, Harry cast a tempus spell. _03:11_ ,the glowing magic read suspended in the air _._ He glowered at the spot that the magic had been, as it faded away. Restlessness with a dose of anxiety for the lateness of the hour stirred within him. He had lost over an hour locating the rune stones.

With the knowledge of how late it was getting, Harry set his mind on remaining idle just long enough to mentally prepare himself for bypassing the wards and venturing beyond them to perform the energy sourcing ritual.

Sirius, however, seemed to have other plans. The man cleared and built a pit in the grass and set a fire alight within it using the fallen tree limbs and random sticks lying about. He urged Harry to sit down on a boulder near the fire and submitted himself to a medical scan to ensure his health. The fact that Harry’s heart beat steadily in his chest and that, outside of the minor side effects of lingering pain, a bit of a headache, and a vague dizziness, he appeared to be in good condition perplexed Sirius, who had been certain that he had practically witnessed Harry’s death.

“Are you aware of just how the powerful human mind is?” Harry demanded with indignation, while fending off his godfather’s continued attempts to check his heart rate for a fourth time – a procedure that the man had no doubt learned from his wife. “It’s is the gateway to body, magic, and soul – the physical, the metaphysical – it is the source of our every subconscious action and thought and allow us to enact our own will over ourselves and all that is around us. If I bloody well want my heart to beat just so, I can make my heart beat just so. You aren’t going to find anything wrong with me, Sirius, so back the off – yeah?”

“It’s unnatural,” Sirius said in return, his eyes flickering with irritation in the firelight, yet his underlying curiosity showed plain as well. “A person doesn’t just almost die – become chalk white, practically stop breathing, and radiate the feeling of ice cold death – only to fall to ground screaming his head off, flushed with warmth and life in less than a second. Of all the magics that I’ve ever read up on or heard of, I’ve never…”

“You really don’t want to know what magics are at work in those wards, Sirius,” Harry said, pinning his godfather with a severe look.

Sirius regarded Harry pensively. “You’re really all right?”

“For the most part,” Harry said honestly and held his hands out to warm them over the fire. He was cold. “I might need a day or two to recover, but I won’t suffer any lasting damage.”

With a resigned huff, Sirius settled himself down by the fire – his eyes never leaving Harry – and allowed silence to lapse between them.

With the light rustling of the southern wind brushing over the grass and rattling the tree leaves, the faint crackling of the fire, the low murmur of the stream, and his and Sirius’s breaths the only sounds filling the silence, Harry shut his eyes and focused his awareness inward. A few minutes would be all that he’d need and were, in fact, all that he could afford, as the sun would rise in less than two hours.

When Harry returned to the edge of the Kill Wards, Sirius did not return with him. Harry had told the man that he had no need of his assistance, as well as had given the man his promise that he would return no worse for wear before sunup. Sirius had not been happy about it, but he had agreed to remain by the fire, as he had outright refused to return home without Harry. In truth, Harry couldn’t guarantee his future condition to his godfather, as there was a very real chance that he’d blow himself up with the energy sourcing ritual. He merely wanted to keep his godfather as far away from the blast zone as possible.

It was easy to follow his and Sirius’s path back to the wards through the matted down grass. When he arrived at the place where he had fallen, he took fifteen measured steps to the left along the wards, before taking five measured steps back. In the other world, the distance between the rune stones had been so great in some cases that there had been long stretches along the ward boundaries where the magic of the wards barely penetrated the earth at all. It wouldn’t be so with the set of wards that he now faced. The overall configuration was weak – if he were out to dismantle them, that is (which he had no clue about doing, as they drew a good bit of their power from trapped souls, instead of free magic, and were defined by rune stones). However, the rune stones were much closer together, meaning that the wards penetrated the earth several feet, even at the mid-points between the outlying rune stones. From what he had felt, when he had been connected to the wards, he need to clear nine feet plus several additional feet for a crawl space.

Harry bent down and withdrew a pocket knife from his jacket pocket. He had plans to obtain a proper dagger soon. For now, though, the old pocket knife would have to do. As he began to cut an arced line into the earth, he mused at just what sort of education war could provide a person. He hadn’t even finished his sixth year at Hogwarts or taken a single course of Ancient Runes in the other world, yet he had learned temporary and semi-permanent warding, construction arrays, and multiple rituals and healing spells involving runes. His knowledge and abilities in the Mind Arts were uncontested by all but a handful of men. He had advance far beyond NEWT level in nearly all his Hogwarts course, especially Defense Against the Dark Arts, Charms, and Transfigurations. He had also picked up other, more questionable fields of magic along the way, along with general survival skills, life skills, and multiple languages. He could say with complete honesty that he had learned more over the course of the war than he had at Hogwarts, or would have in such a short time had the war never happened.

With the construction array finished, Harry cleaned the knife on his jeans, before proceeding to cut open his left palm. He pressed his bleed hand to the center of the array, his life energy helping to cement his connection to the magic being preformed, as his will and a whispered word activated the array. Since he was using passive magic, the power that he could force into the array was only as limited as his own ability to control the magic; unlike active magic, which also factored in the limits of the focuser being use. Yet the end result, he knew, would be far less elegant and would take far longer than if he were using a wand. Passive magic was active magic’s crude predecessor, and its predecessor for a reason.

Harry could feel the earth shift beneath his hand, could feel the free magic that he was pulling from his surroundings moving through him, changing, and flowing into the earth where the array further define it. This time, he took things slower, much slower than he had when he had separated himself from the Kill Wards. He wasn’t just moving magic through his body; he was altering, using it – a very different and difficult task, when compared to the former.

Upon the earth falling away from beneath Harry’s palm, a well was exposed. It wasn’t a true well. There was no water and it wasn’t all that deep, 15 feet or roughly so. Its mouth was three feet in diameter and its walls were smooth clay hardened into stone. He pressed his bleeding palm to the edge of well nearest him and focused again on the current of magic still flowing through him, changing, and moving out of him and into his construction. With the sound of stone grinding on stone, ladder rungs protruded from the wall.

Harry climbed down the ladder without a second thought. He couldn’t count how many similar constructs he had climbed down throughout his life. His feet hit the base of the well with the distinct _snick_ of boots landing on stone. He focused his eyes, allowing his night vision to take fully now that he was swathed in shadows at the base of the well without the light of the moon to see by. He turned to face the curved wall of the well opposite the ladder. His pocket knife wouldn’t have much effect on stone, but his blood would work all the same for drawing the rune array that would assist him in constructing a passage that would allow him to bypass the Kill Wards wholly unharmed.

The time it took for Harry to finish his tunnel system amounted to nearly an hour. A fact that he was not pleased with, but knew that rushing the process would have pushed his limits and put him at risk of losing control of the magic.

Harry emerged from the well that he had constructed mere feet inside the boundary of wards with caution. He had thought that the night was silent before, but the silence that he’d previously experience was nothing to the utter soundlessness filling his ears. As he let out the breath that he hadn’t known that he’d been holding, it sounds harsh despite its soft whisper from his lungs.

“Right then,” Harry said, his eyes gazing into the forested area before him. It was downright eerie how still the trees were, how ridge ever blade of grass was, and how cold the air was on his skin in comparison to the summer night outside the wards. Frost was already forming on the underbrush in preparation for dawn.

Harry took a few more steadying breaths and stepped forward. With that step, the earth crunched beneath his weight deafeningly. Yet, nothing stirred around him. He was the only living creature within the wards, he was sure. To remain so, there were but a few simple rules that he had to follow: do not attempt apparation, do not activate a portkey, and do not touch the edge of the wards (unknowingly or unprepared). These rules, of course, would not apply to any and all marked Death Eaters or to the Dark Lord, himself. The Death Eaters’ Dark Marks provided them a free, all access pass so to speak, while the wards were attuned to Voldemort’s innate magic.

Harry shook his head of the memories attempting to come forward, not wanting to think about all the lives lost with the initial activation of the Kill Wards over Britain and the many lives lost afterwards, as they made various attempts to circumvent the wards. The shatter remains of the Order of the Phoenix and the few stragglers that they had picked up had been like sitting duck with clipped wings for the first five months, before desperation called forth a plan that had been regarded as utter madness, until it had been proven viable. After the freedom of the last week and the freedom that he remembered always having as his teenage self, Harry felt distinctly uneasy now within the confines of the Kill Wards that he had grown so accustom to in the other world.

With his sense on high alert, Harry forced himself forward. His steps, his every breath, even the steady rhythm of his heartbeat – every noise that he made was unbearably loud, as he moved through the underbrush. Upon reaching the pebbled shore of the oblong lake, after several minutes of hiking, he was faced with 300 yards and thousands of gallons of still water between him and his objective. Yet, even at this distance, he could tell that something wasn’t quite right. He had noticed that the island wasn’t flat and appeared to be a rock formation back outside the wards on his and Sirius’s initial approach. Closer now, he saw that rock formation wasn’t quite the correct term to apply to the island. Ritual site was the more accurate term to be applied.

For a moment, Harry stared across the lake at the jutting rock construct with its marble white, yet visibly blood stained sacrificial slab distinguishable at its center. He had never been on site, when any of the other keystones had been destroyed. Usually, he had moved on to ridding another nation of the reign of the Dark Regime, by the time his ward experts took on the task of deconstructing the Kill Wards over the nations that they had already reclaimed. With Britain’s Kill Wards, though, the Dark Regime was still active, when his warders had moved in. The warders had been working on the wards for over a month, by the time that he had died. And despite having known about this particular site from nearly the beginning of their work (it was, if fact, the only site that they had ever reported to him), they had made zero progress in deconstructing the wards – or had not reported making any progress to him, at the very least. Not to mention, they never mentioned a ritual site married to a keystone site before. He got the feeling that he now knew what had been causing the delay.

Trepidation settled within his gut, as Harry remained unmoving at the water’s edge. He had two options. One was to continue on with his mission and make his way onto the island and see just what exactly was what. The other was to concede and give up the night as a bad job. He could secure Bill’s help at the Quidditch World Cup and return with the man, who was much more educated about wards than himself, seeing as the man had practically taught him all that he knows about temporary and semi-permanent wards.

Harry sighed, knowing that there was really only one option. He knew next to nothing about permanent wards, other than that most were defined by runes stones and depended very little on their caster for their strength and that he could tunnel under them, if he was determined enough and had the time to do so. To put it outright: he needed Bill. He needed to get the red head on board, before he attempted anything more with the wards. There was no getting around it.

“Fuck!” Harry cursed, his voice echoing across the lake with volume that he was sure that he hadn’t actually used. With resignation, he turned away from the water’s edge. It looked like he’d be keeping his promise to Sirius.


	17. Baron of the Peak

**Disclaimer:**   _Okay, so I thought that I better put a disclaimer on this chapter so that I don't get bombarded with angry comments. Essentially, remember as you read this chapter that this is a work of fiction that in no way claims historical accuracy. Yes, I've done a bit of historical research, as well as spent over thirty hours on genealogical research trying to find as much information, as many useful connections, and as much continuity as possible. So, there is a touch of realism to the story, but it's still a tale of fiction that has been written. Don't take it seriously. This is a bit of history twisted to suit my needs for the story, capisce?_

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**Chapter 17: Baron of the Peak**

Harry groaned and his hand instinctually went to his head. That movement, however, reminded him why he had a headache, as his arm and shoulder muscles flared with a dull ache that lingered throughout his body. Last night had not gone at all like he had wanted or expected that it would.

"Mum says you have to get up."

"Ten more minutes," Harry murmured in a half-asleep slur and turned his face into his pillow in search of the dark, unawareness of his body's aches and of the world around him that he had been enjoying. He felt like he could sleep for another ten hours, perhaps another ten years. Not that he had that sort of time to waste, of course.

"You've practically slept the morning away already, Harry. If you don't get up, Mum says she's going to assume there's something wrong and floo Mayra to come over to have a look at you."

_Damn,_  Harry thought, already mourning the comfort of his bed, despite not having moved an inch to get out of it yet. He blamed his teenage self for such soft sentiments, as his adult self had usually hit the ground running no matter what time he had been awoken or how little sleep he had gotten or what injuries he had been suffering from. Or perhaps it was his out of shape, teenage body that was to blame. He really needed to train this body up to endure all the crap that he was going to put it through – last night was evidence of as much. While his mind could make up for some of its weakness, he'd prefer not to run himself into the ground on every mission or waste energy and concentration on things that he need not waste energy and concentration on.

"So…I'll tell Mum you're not feeling well then."

"I'm up," Harry said, his head snapping up from his pillow with a reluctant jerk. He squinted his eyes against the bright sunlight pouring through his bedroom window and focused on his sister. Bethany was standing a few feet away from his bed with her arms crossed over her chest, looking annoyed. "What time is it exactly?"

"A quarter past ten," she said plainly, telling Harry without using actual words to say so that it wasn't him that she was annoyed with, as she wasn't snapping at him, like she would have if she were angry with him. He was merely an inconvenience for her, while someone else was the true focus of her ire.

_Ah,_  Harry thought, after taking a moment to consider the time and his sister's presence in his room.  _She probably wanted to stay longer at Demelza's house, but Mum or Dad forced her home._

"Dad wants to see you in his study, once you've ate something," Bethany informed and turned to leave Harry's room, her long hair sweeping through the air after her.

Harry let her go. He had more pressing matters to deal with than his sister's latest row with their parents. First and most immediate was the physical toll on his body from his late night/early morning activities. Second and somewhat less immediate was the fact that his father was home, as in home with enough time for them to talk. The man wouldn't have told Bethany to tell him to come to his study, if that wasn't the case. Third and of high priority, yet a long term problem in its full execution, was the matter of engineering a war without appearing to be engineering a war, but still drawing enough attention to himself to keep attention away from other parties that would do well to drop from Voldemort's notice all together. Not to mention, somewhere in all his plotting, he had to figure out how to fuck over the goblins without causing an inter-species incident. Well, he didn't  _really_  have to per say – call him vindictive, he wouldn't deny it – but the way he saw things: it was better to screw them, before they screwed him (and possibly the rest of Europe).

"Self-serving, pretentious bastards," Harry cursed the goblin race, as he willed his aches away and got out of bed.

A half hour later saw Harry entering his father's study. It wasn't a large room, simply the den off of the sitting room, but it suited his father and had suited many Potter patriarchs before his father just fine. Cluttered bookshelves and old, sturdy and overflowing cabinets lined the walls with a shutter window looking out at the shaded back garden positioned squarely behind his father's desk. His father, who was dressed in casual, navy robes and whose black hair was as messy as ever, was sitting in his antique, dark leather armchair behind the vast, colonial desk. As was accustom, the man's work was spread cross the work surface. Books had been pull from their oak shelves, scrolls of notes and recordings of history written by Potters of the past had been removed from still open and somewhat disorganized cabinets and lay open for perusal, a partially filled glass of Firewhiskey rested just within reach of his father's right hand, which was clasped around a quill and jotting down notes on a fresh, yet already ink riddled scroll of parchment – the sight was familiar, yet foreign. The way his father looked up at him, when he entered made it so.

The warmth that Harry usually associated with his father was nowhere to be found. This meeting was business. He could see it in his father's resolved eyes, just as he could see it in the rigidity of the man's posture and the way the man's hand stilled over the parchment, instead of finishing out the sentence that it had been painting.

Harry felt caution stir within him, as he stepped into the room fully and shut his father's study door behind him. The moment that he did, he felt the privacy wards that surround his father's study activate.

"A bit early for that, isn't it?" Harry asked from his place by the door, nodding his head at the Firewhiskey. Its potent smell was perceptible in his every breath, along with the scent of slowly decaying parchment and old books and the fumes of the oil lamps burning dully within the room. One lamp made of brass rested on the cabinet nearest to the door and another of brass and silver sat at the left corner of his father's desk. Between the oil lamps and the daylight stream through the lone window, the room was well lit with only the slightest of shadows stretching across the floor boards and plain white walls.

James returned his quill to the inkwell that rested open near the top of the parchment that he was working on and swept his hand over to pick up the glass of Firewhiskey. He brought the glass to his lips, taking a swallow of the beverage in answer to Harry's question. "I assume you drink," he said, after setting the glass back on his desk. His eyes regarded Harry, as if he didn't know him at all, as if Harry were a stranger, an unknown entity that he was attempting to get the measure of.

"Porteur drank on occasion," Harry conceded, as he regard his father in return and attempted get his own measure of the situation and his father's line of thinking. Whatever they were to each at the current moment, they weren't exactly father and son – not in the way that the accustom relation between them had always been. That much was clear. His father wasn't looking at him as if he were his underage son, but rather as if he were his equal.

Harry resisted the urge to raise an eyebrow in askance of his father's actions, as the man nodded and then conjured a second glass tumbler and poured a measure of Firewhiskey into it from the decanter of the amber liquid that Harry hadn't noticed hiding behind a sizable stack of books. The man set the glass across from him at the edge of his desk and made a welcoming motion for Harry to sit and have a drink with him.

"Am I to take it that this one of those conversations that requires alcohol?" Harry asked, as he crossed the wood floorboards with his bare feet and in a lazy stride and picked up the tumbler. He sniffed its contents, taking in its distinct, nostril burning scent that was unmistaken as Firewhiskey and searching for subtle hints of anything that shouldn't be in the whiskey. He found none, but he hadn't actually expected to find any. "Ogden's finest."

"1965," James said and leaned back in his chair, feign calm with a touch of indifference that he couldn't quite pull off.

Harry did raise an eyebrow at that. "I've been told that was a good year."

"One of the best," James confirmed, his eyes watching Harry carefully.

Harry met the man's gaze.  _What are you playing at, Dad? Is this a preemptive peace offering? A test?_  Whatever his father's motivations, he wasn't about to turn down Ogden's, though he would use the presented opportunity to make a point very clear between them that he wanted absolutely no mistake about, not ever. "I don't accept food or drink from an adversary," he said, stating it as the matter of fact that it was.

"I'd hope not." James graced Harry with an easy grin that told of his understanding.

With very deliberate movements, Harry brought the glass tumbler to his lips. The amber liquid burned across his tongue and all the way down his throat to the pit of his stomach. Warmth burst through him, as the substance lit his insides alight with its fire. Though his body wasn't familiar with the strange sensation, his mind was. He drew the tumbler smoothly away from his lips without a cough, his eyes never leaving his father's penetrating stare.

"Better than the batch of 1907," Harry said, his voice slightly horse from the burn of the alcohol wreaking havoc on his virgin throat.

"I've never had any 1907," James said, still watching Harry carefully. "I'll take your word for it."

Harry hummed, took another sip of the whiskey, and sat down on the puffy, maroon armchair set before his father's desk.  _Not a test, but something else_. "So, are we celebrating or are we getting pissed so that this conversation is just a little bit more bearable?"

"The latter, though I wouldn't say pissed." James took up his own Firewhiskey and brought the glass to his lips for a quick drink. "If things go as I expect, we'll be meeting with Mr. Earnshaw this afternoon."

Harry tensed, his grip tightening around the tumbler in his hand. "Our solicitor?"

James nodded stiffly, his lips pursed and eyes serious. "We've much to discuss, Harry," he said gravely. "I'm not sure of the extent of your knowledge on the matter of our heritage, but you looked genuinely shocked in Ollivander's shop, so I must assume that you never learned the truth of our ancestry in your other world."

"The only facts that I know about the Potter ancestry are the ones  _you_  taught me," Harry interrupted, before his father could even ask the question of his knowledge. "In the other world, I didn't even know my first name was Harold. I always thought that my full given name was Harry, as did everyone else."

"Please tell me that you were at least aware of the repercussions of exposing yourself as a parselmouth," James said with a slightly pleading note, while looking like had just been force fed one of Dumbledore's famous Sherbet Lemons.

"Not…" Harry began, only for realization to hit. He'd never told his father that he was a parselmouth, nor had he given any indication that he was one over the last few weeks. He narrowed his eyes at his father, suspicion increasing the uneasy that he felt since entering his father's study. "How'd you know I'm a parselmouth?"

"Because every Peverell born of William Peverell the Elder and Adeline, daughter of Salazar Slytherin and Deirdre, last daughter of le Fay, has been a parselmouth," James said calmly and took another sip of his whiskey. "If you've truly broken through Ignotus's Seal, like Ollivander claims, you'd be no different. And you aren't, as it seems."

Harry sat ridge in his chair, openly staring at his father, his mind incapable of coherent thought, as it attempted to process the shit his father had just dumped on him with two sentences in the space of forty-three seconds. His father's pointed look at the tumbler of whiskey in his hand drew his attention to the amber liquid.  _Yes, this conversation most definitely requires alcohol,_ he thought in agreement, as he brought it to his lips. He took a longer drink, relishing in the burn, than he had prior, before returning his attention to his father.

"When you say William Peverell the Elder, I assume that means there was a William Peverell the Younger, and if that's the case, I assume you're talking about the bastard son of William the Conqueror and Ingelrica, who married Ranulph Perf, a Welshman who took on the Norman name Peverell and gave the name to the son, in order to make the child legitimate," Harry said, finding it to difficult to suspend his disbelief. "And when you say Deirdre, last daughter of le Fay, I assume you're talking about the le Fay bloodline, as in Morgan le Fay."

"You assume right on both accounts," James confirmed. "Though, I'm surprised that you jumped straight to William the Conqueror without mentioning the Brothers or Eustace or Henry Peverell, if you know of the Peverells and their story."

"I don't of them, not really," Harry said uncaringly. The alcohol pumping through him was truly beginning to take effect, soothing him and making the entire matter of his heritage a little less important than it actually was. "I only really know of William the Conqueror, William Peverell the Elder, and William Peverell the Younger, because I've been compared to William the Conqueror more than a few time in the other world, and his bastard son and traitorous grandson were always brought up, as part of his legend."

James raised an eyebrow. "He wasn't well known for his mercy."

"Neither was I," Harry said truthfully, as he pointedly averted his gaze away from his father's ever persistent and judgmental stare to study the ancient looking globe resting atop a particularly fat and overflowing cabinet to his left. The globe's adorned gold stand was pristine, yet the parchment wrapping the quaffle sized sphere was noticeably discolored, as were the inks faded. He knew, without needing to move closer and examining the globe in detail, that the boundaries defining the many countries and even some of the names of the countries wouldn't match up to the maps used by Muggles of the 19th century, let alone the maps of today. The portrait that hung behind the globe, which usually contained Edmund Potter, his great-great-great-grandfather, who originally owned the globe, was suspiciously empty, just as the other five portraits in the room were as well.  _A truly private conversation._

"From what I understand, after William the Younger's condemnation as a traitor, the Honour of Peverell was claimed by the Crown," Harry said, looking back to his father. Even if they were descendants of the Peverells in some way, the family's nobility and prestige had been long gone. It shouldn't affect him now, yet somehow it did, if his encounter with Ollivander was anything to go by.

"All but a portion, which went to William the Younger's daughter and accepted heir, Margaret," James said, sounding displeased by the fact.

"You say accepted as if there was another heir who should have been more eligible," Harry noted with interest.

James gave a weary sigh and slumped in his chair. "There was. Henry Peverell was William the Younger's first born from his first marriage and his heir by all rights, but Henry II refused to recognize Henry Peverell's claim to any portion of the Honour of Peverell and attempted to hunt down Henry the same way that he had taken to hunting down William the Younger."

"The father's crime becomes the son's crime as well," Harry said scathingly. He'd had some experience with that particular sentiment.

"That's just it." James frowned, took a sip of his whiskey, and shook his head despairingly. "The father's crime was the son's crime. While Margaret and her sister, Helen, had been born of a separate mother from Henry and neither daughter had a trace of magic within them, Henry shared his father and grandparent's gift."

"Magic," Harry said flatly, understanding washing through him. "Henry II was after them because their magic?"

"By all accounts, William the Elder was a muggle-born. He attended Hogwarts, where it is written that he first met his future wife, Adeline. He left Hogwarts with a full education at the age of 14 and went on to Normandy to become a knight in service to his father. After the Battle of Hastings and establishing his place amongst his father's court, he and Adeline married. Their two children, William the Younger and Adelise, were just as magically gifted as their mother and father. While Adelise went on to marry a wizard, William the Younger married Oddona verch Hugh d'Avranches, and upon Oddona's death during the still born birth of their second son, Richard, he married Avicia of Lancaster. It is suspect, however, that William the Younger's two daughters with Avicia of Lancaster were not actually his and that he had only one true child, Henry," James said, recounting the history, as if he knew it as well as his own life story. "King Henry I had always been quite amiable with the Peverell line, though many of William the Conqueror's legitimate children were not pleased with the Peverells' status and, most especially, with the fact that William the Elder and his descendants were seen as legitimate and practically equal to them."

"Which is part of the reason why William Peverell the Younger championed King Stephen, instead of Empress Matilda and Henry II," Harry said knowingly. He'd heard this bit before, as William the Younger's support of Stephen was supposedly the true reason that Henry II stripped William Peverell the Younger of the Honour of Peverell and proclaimed him a traitor of England. Harry could hardly blame his ancestor for backing Stephen, when a good majority of the man's aunts and uncles and his many cousins would have preferred to see him and his family killed than to allow his family to retain the Honour of Peverell and the man had supposedly found an ally in Stephen. He, Harry, would have done the same.

"Yes," James agreed. "Nonetheless, it wasn't long after Henry II assumed the thrown that the King discovered that William Peverell the Elder had had magic and that William Peverell the Younger and Henry Peverell both had magic as well. William the Younger's support of King Stephen and his supposed hand in the attempt on the Earl of Chester's life only served as further crimes against him, when his magic was enough of a crime for Henry II to proclaim him a traitor." He paused to take a swallow of his whiskey, which was nearly empty with only a thin coating reaming in the bottom of the glass.

Harry mirrored his father, finding that the old tales of witch burnings and muggle violence against magicals were a bit more close to home, when it was his own ancestors that he was hearing about suffering the cruelty and prejudice.

"William the Younger was killed – slaughtered actually – but Henry managed to get away and to gain sanctity among his fellow witches and wizards," James continued, his lips pulling down at their corners once more. "Though Henry II thought that he had seized the entirety of the Honour of Peverell, he had been wrong. Contingences had been in place for years. A castle constructed privately in the Forest of Derby and warded with the best wards that William the Elder could provide had remained secretly in Henry's possession, as did a small fortune that had been hidden away within the castle's vaults. Henry lived quite comfortably and eventually married the witch Matilda, daughter of Drake de Burke, and had two children Eustace and Beatrice. Beatrice died of Dragon Pox as a little girl, but Eustace married and had three sons of his own, known as the Brothers. Antioch, Cadmus, and Ignotus Peverell were without a doubt the brightest and most dangerous wizards of their age."

"None of that explains why Ollivander referred to me as 'Young Lord' last week," Harry said, taking another drink of his whiskey. His glass wasn't far from being empty. A few more swallows would easily polish the drink off. "The Peverell Coat of Arms and all that nobility shit with the Honour of Peverell; it no longer applies."

"There's the rub," James said, looking troubled. His earlier frown had become a pronounced scowl with his eyes narrowed with displeasure behind his glasses. "Even back then our kind had begun to consider ourselves separate from the Muggles. We had our Wizards' Council. We had our own sport, our own drinks and food, and our own songs and dances. Every day we were pulling further away from the society that persecuted us more and more and to a great extreme. Henry II may have stripped William the Younger and Henry of their Muggle peerage, but among our kind, Henry's status as Baron of the Peak remained. The seat that his father had had on the Wizards' Council and the lands his father had been charge to govern, as a wizard overseeing his fellow wizards, had become his with his father's death. Very few on the Wizards' Council cared about William Peverell the Younger's supposed crimes, as most regard Henry II's declaration of William the Younger as a traitor of England, as an attack on William the Younger for being a wizard."

Harry scrubbed a weary hand through his still sleep ruffled hair, as he digested the information being imparted to him. He'd really been hoping to escape all the 'my lord' crap and the fucking nervous, non-stop bowing in this world. His chances of doing so were looking less and less likely. Morrigan save him from idiots.

"Do you want to take a break?" James asked, watching his son's form sag in the armchair across from him.

Harry shook his head. "Just tell me how all of this is relevant to me. You said something earlier about Ignotus's Seal."

"As I know that you know  _The Tale of the Three Brothers_ , I won't bother rehashing it, but basically Antioch, Cadmus, and Ignotus were the brothers that inspired the tale," James said in a rushed breath. "If they ever worked together to conjure a bridge across a treacherous river, I don't know. I do know that the supposed gifts that they received from Death were actually items that they made themselves. Antioch crafted the Elder Wand, Cadmus crafted the Resurrection Stone, and Ignotus crafted the Cloak of Invisibility."

"Your cloak," Harry concluded knowingly. He had noticed in the other world that the invisibility cloak that he had inherited from his father wasn't like any other of its kind. It wasn't woven from demiguise hair, yet he had never had to apply a single charm to it silk like material to maintain its power. Not that it had been charmed invisible in the first place. The cloak was practically magic itself. He had no clue as to how Ignotus had done it, but his ancestor had somehow given a physical, movable form to an enchantment. Whether the cloak had been an actual cloak to start with or was simply the manifestation of his ancestor's spell work, he couldn't say one way or the other.

"As  _The Tale of the Three Brothers_  claims, it has been passed down from father to son," James confirmed with a nod. "Where the Elder Wand and Resurrection Stone have ended up, however, is a mystery. Antioch was killed – not in an inn and not by a knife to the throat – but he was most definitely killed for the Elder Wand. Cadmus did commit suicide, but it wasn't the echo of his betrothed lover that drove him to his grave. It was his wife, who died during child birth, that he recalled and eventually killed himself to join in death. Supposedly, their daughter took possession of the Resurrection Stone. The daughter's whereabouts, after Cadmus's death, are unrecorded and are as much a mystery as who killed Antioch for the Elder Wand and where both the Elder Wand and the Resurrection Stone have ended up."

"And the part about Death hunting Ignotus?" Harry said and took a swallow of his Firewhiskey. The burn of the alcohol down his throat and the hum of it within his veins was the only thing keeping him seated. If he had been sober, he'd have been up and pacing by now, as he attempted to analyze every new piece of information – starting with the fact that he wasn't a parselmouth do to him playing host to one of Voldemort's horcruxes for roughly nineteen years of his life in the other world, which had never quite set right with him to begin with.

"Death did hunt Ignotus, just not in the literal sense of the actual figure of Death searching for him across the land," James said, back to scowling. "The Peverell Brothers had been well known for their wealth and noble status and widely known for their heritage – regarded as they were as sons of the bastard bloodline of William the Conqueror and indisputably the last descendants to carry the blood of Slytherin and le Fay. In roughly two centuries, the Peverell bloodline had gone from nonexistence to being at the height of power and knowledge among wizarding kind, and needless to say, there had been certain families who had opposed the bloodline's quick rise and had felt threatened by the Peverells' pedigree and their ever growing knowledge and understanding of magic, particularly the direction their studies had taken into the even then forbidden depths of the Dark Arts, as rumors of Cadmus's fascination with necromancy and his obsession with bring his deceased wife back to life had spread.

"It is written that the Resurrection Stone had been crafted by Cadmus long before Antioch had ever crafted the Elder Wand, and the same has been recorded in accordance to Ignotus crafting the Cloak of Invisibility. By all accounts, Antioch had crafted the wand as a weapon to be used against those who had threatened the family in response to Cadmus's work. After Cadmus had been driven to suicide by his own creation and Antioch had been murdered for the Elder Wand, Ignotus had found himself and his young son to be all that remained of the Peverell bloodline, as Antioch had never had children and Cadmus's daughter had disappeared with her father's creation.

"Ignotus took his wife and son into hiding, far away from everyone and everything that they had ever known, about two years after Antioch had been murdered. The family had been driven from muggle society, by threat of death, barely a century earlier, yet had no longer been able to live safely within wizarding society either. Many witches and wizards of the time had assumed that Ignotus had known his brothers' secrets and several had sought him out and had demanded that he craft them their own Resurrection Stone or a wand just a powerful as the fabled Elder Wand," James said, the tightening of his eyes and the pronounced pull of his lips in a thin downturn making him appear more grim than Harry ever remembered see him. "The sort that chase those kinds of artifacts are dangerous themselves by nature, and Ignotus had had his life and his wife and son's lives put in jeopardy more than once for having refused to emulate his brothers' work. There had been other attacks on him and his family, as well, by witches and wizards who had believed Ignotus to be just as dangerous and deranged as his brothers and had wished him dead on principle. Then there were those who had been waiting for an excuse to end the Peverell bloodline and had been more than eager to take advantage of the change in attitude towards the family."

"Fuck," Harry said in a low exhale. Why his father had looked ready to curse, if not kill Ollivander for even bring up their ancestry was becoming more and more clear to him by the minute. The Peverells may have lived centuries ago, but that didn't change the fact that they were their ancestors – close enough in blood for the Potters to have ended up with the Cloak of Invisibility. There was no telling how modern society would react to such a revelation.

James sighed and bowed his head with his son's whispered curse. For a long moment, silence penetrated the study, hanging tense in air between father and son.

"Ignotus crafted the cloak, once he and his family had gone into hiding. It was designed to be a safety measure, in case if their location was ever discovered," James said, breaking the silence, and when he looked back up at Harry, his gaze was morose, as well as resigned. "In theory, his wife and son would have escaped beneath the cloak, while he attempted to buy them enough time to get away. Ignotus knew, however, that neither the cloak nor hiding out in self-imposed exile would be an indefinite solution to his family's continued survival. His son would grow and would eventually desire to leave home and start a family of his own. Yet, like any other son of Peverell, his son possessed a distinguishable aptitude for the Mind Arts, was a parselmouth, and had already shown signs of being able to control magic in ways that the average wizard could not. These traits marked his son and would mark all his future descendants, just as they marked him and his ancestors. Though he referred to it as 'a most vile and unthinkable act', Ignotus knew that there was only one true solution that would have any sort of permanence. The traits that defined the Peverells for who they were had to be sealed away within the family's magic – some traits more fully than others. It took him many years, but when his son turned 17, he was able to send the boy out into the world, not as Walter Peverell, but as Richard Potter."

For a measured moment, Harry stared blankly at his father. He swallowed the last of his whiskey, as he resolved himself to the significance of what his father had just told him. "What happened to the Peverells' seat on the Wizards' Council? Their lands and gold?"

"Their seat on the Wizards' Council was absorbed by the Council with an elected member filling the seat," James said matter-of-factly, as if he was attempting to distance himself from this bit of history. "Much like the ill fate of the Honour of Peverell, those who tried to claim the seat as their own found themselves suffering all kinds of difficulties – some even grew ill, while others died by one obscure disease or another or in an inexplicable accident. An attempt at splitting up the land and the legislative responsibilities governed by the Peverells' seat was made, but only resulted in all parties involved suffering equal misfortune. With the transition of the Wizards' Council into the Wizengamot, there was hope that the curse would break, but it did not. As it stands, management of the Peverells' seat is attached to the responsibilities of the Chief Warlock."

Harry let out a soft chuckle. He couldn't help it. Sure, he didn't find Voldemort's curse on the Defense Against the Dark Arts post very funny, but that was Voldemort being a petty bastard. The Peverells' curse on their own seat on the Wizards' Council (now Wizengamot) was revenge well earned and beautifully executed.

"Technically, Harry," James said sternly and pinned his son with a disapproving look, "the seat remains in the Peverells' possession, waiting for a true heir of Peverell blood and magic to emerge from the Potter bloodline and claim his birthright. I imagine that Ignotus didn't want to lose everything, like his grandfather Henry nearly had to Henry II and had always intended for the Peverell bloodline to continue publicly, once it was safe for his descendant to claim their heritage. Whether now is the time to make that claim or not, I don't know. But you've broken Ignotus's Seal, son, and according to all records: once it's broken, there is no fixing it or reapplying it. Not for you, at least."

Looking at his father, Harry saw that they had finally arrived at the reason for their conversation thus far. His father was once more appraising him with indifferent eyes, as if the man didn't know him at all. Only this time, Harry understood his father's motivations. His father was taking him in, the man's probing eyes raking over his raw state, and trying to find the son of nobility and merciless warrior that supposedly ran in his blood and was reaffirmed within his magic, unbound by Ignotus's Seal as his magic was.

Harry didn't know about the son of nobility part, but he had the merciless warrior routine down pat. Now that he knew the truth, the comparison some of his men had made in the other world between him and William the Conqueror and the Conqueror's bastard son and traitorous grandson, he realized, had probably been intentional. They had always looked to him, waiting for him to confirm or deny the likeness – always respectful, yet cautious. Even Ron had approached him, inquiring in his not-so-subtle, subtle way as to what he thought about the comparison, while having waited for his answer with baited breath. He hadn't understood then, but he did now. They had wanted to know, if he was a Peverell descendant, without having to ask him outright.

_Does the name really hold the same power today that it held all those centuries ago?_  Harry wondered, meeting his father's gaze with silent askance.

"I'm not going to tell you how to live your life, Harry," James said, his entire visage serious, as well as sincere. "I've thought long and hard on this. No matter what I try to tell myself, this is your decision. I've done my best to impart upon you the severity of the choice you now face, but whatever you decide – whether you choose to embrace our true heritage or choose to maintain the status quo as a Potter, hiding the abilities that define you as a son of Peverell – know that I will support you no matter what."

Harry leaned forward and deposited his empty whiskey tumbler on his father's cluttered desk. Instead of resting back in the plush armchair, as he had been, he hunched forward with his elbows digging into his knees and his eyes fixed pensively on the wood floorboards beneath his feet, his gaze sliding past his clasped hands. The choice wasn't hard. If he took his personal feelings out of the matter and ignored the possible repercussions for him and his family, there was only one conceivable option. Like a starved man in a desert with nothing edible around for miles being offered a way to get around Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration, he couldn't snub what was being offered to him. To take on the Peverell heritage publicly would be the perfect and easiest way to draw attention to himself, gain political sway that he wouldn't have had otherwise, and give him more than an excuse for the magic that he used. As a Peverell, no one would expect him to behave as a Potter and it would be easier for him to shake the kid image, when circumstances demanded that he be seen as an adult or a genuine adversary. Sure, he could continue to trudge through the blazing desert aching with starvation, but why? To what end? For his family's sake? Maybe, but the shit he was dealing with was much bigger than just him and his family. He was trying to avert a war. He needed every advantage that he could get. It was as simple as that.

"Dad," Harry said, swallowing hard as he looked back up at his father. There was no surprise on his father's face, just expectation and acceptance.

"If you're ready to go in the next fifteen minutes, we'll have time to grab lunch at Fortescue's, before our appointment with Mr. Earnshaw," James said, forcing a reassuring smile on his face. "He's already drawn up all the necessary paperwork for your emancipation from the House of Potter and claim of Lordship as the Baron of the Peak, as well as the paperwork to change your surname to Peverell in the eyes of the Ministry and Wizengamot."

Harry nodded and pushed himself to stand. "Does Mum know?"

"Yes." James's gaze turned concerned, as he looked up at Harry. He hesitated a moment, pursing his lips, before adding, "She tells me you're not adjusting well."

"Normalcy doesn't suit me." Harry shrugged carelessly and turned away from his father's all too perceptive gaze to head for the door.

"Right, because nearly getting yourself kill by some form of death wards is more up your alley."

A whine of the floorboards sounded into the silence of the room, as Harry's steps faltered. "You've talked to Sirius."

"A conversation for another time." There was plain dismissal in James's voice.

Harry finished crossing the last few steps to the sturdy, oak door and exited his father's study, taking the verbal slap on the wrist for the warning that it was. He sincerely doubted that he and his father would talk about his escapades last night, but his father's message was clear. The man didn't like him sneaking around behind his back, and if it happened again and his father found out about it, they would have words.


	18. Politics at Play

**Chapter 18: Politics at Play**

Harry wasn't sure where his week went. After his and his father's initial meeting with Mr. Dwight Earnshaw, the remainder of the weekend had been entirely uneventful and had passed in its entirety before he knew it. Monday had seen his father back to work, Bethany off to the Frobishers house for the week, and him being dragged away from his breakfast by his mother and Mayra to go shopping for new attire that would befit his heritage and status. From Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions to Twilfitt and Tattings and Gladrags Wizardwear, he had been herded and made to endure custom fitting and design session after custom fitting and design session. Needless to say, the day had been tedious and without progress, outside of his wardrobe having been updated with adequate apparel that possessed class as well as the practicality that he had demanded and had steadfast refused to compromise on even for the sake of the garment's overall appeal.

Tuesday, he had been left to his own devices. A silent apology from his mother for the day before, he suspected. He had spent a majority of the day walking the woods behind his family's cottage with the intent of familiarizing himself with the layout and marking himself a jogging path, as well as finding a few sturdy trees that would be good for climbing and had the right limb structure for strength training exercises. If he was going to get his body into shape, he needed to be able to push himself to his limits without worrying about getting lost in the woods or climbing up a faulty tree. Markers that had been etched into the bark of a tree every dozen or so yards had been a method that he had always found to be helpful in tracking his position and whose territory it had been that he had been traveling through in the other world. A different sort of mark on the trees that he knew to be structurally sound and conducive to his strength training needs also simplified matters.

Wednesday, he had forced himself out of bed the moment that the sky had lightened and had started his new training regimen. His mother had given him a strange look, when he had returned from the woods flushed, covered in mud, and soaked to the bone with rain and sweat, but had said nothing, as he had passed her on the stairs on his way to the bath for a soak. He had spent the day with his mother in the cellar, which had been converted into a potions lab of sorts a few centuries back. As he had helped her with the urgent, three cauldron batch of pepper up potion that Tugwood's Apothecary of Hogsmeade had ordered, she had taken the opportunity to quiz him on the third year material that he was to be tested on, before the end of the summer and being allowed to start his fourth year at Hogwarts. Later that evening, after his father had gotten Kingsley Shacklebolt to take the second half of his double shift, Mr. Earnshaw had met with him and his father to authenticate the documents proving his claim to the Peverell heritage, as well as have him and his father sign the finalized forms that granted him his emancipation from the House of Potter and officially changed his surname to Peverell.

Thursday, he had woken early and again left the house a little after dawn. When he had returned from the woods, his mother had greeted him at the back door with a glass of water in hand and a smile on her face. As his mother didn't have another urgent order that she needed assistance with, he had spent much of the drizzly day studying newspapers that his father had saved over the years, looking for any useful information that would tell him where he might find one of Voldemort's currently unaccounted for horcruxes or whether Voldemort's activity was greater or less in this world than it had been in the other world around the same time. He had found nothing definite in what he had read so far, but the stack of newspapers was quite large and he had only gotten a quarter the way through them, before his mother had urged him to bed.

As Harry stared at his reflection in the mirror mounted upon the back of his wardrobe door, adjusting the blood red cravat knotted around his neck, he couldn't help but feel that time had deceived him. Where a week ago, down to the very minute, he had been calmly and rationally planning his mission to recover what he had thought was one of the rune stones that would power the Kill Wards over Britain and use it to locate the Kill Wards' keystone, he was now dressed in an expensive set of coal robes and was growing ever more frustrated with the temperamental cravat choking his neck, while attempting not to stress out about the evening ahead of him. It felt like barely a day had passed between the two nights, yet seven days had come and gone and things were now so very different – more complicated, yet simpler – than they had been last Friday.

At hearing a knock on his bedroom door, Harry turned away from his reflection and, in defeat, ceased clawing at the cravat with an irritated huff. "Come in."

"Nearly ready?" Lily asked, carrying with her into her son's bedroom the floral scent of the perfume that she only ever wore on special occasions – lavender and violet with a hint of honeysuckle.

Harry breathed in deeply, as he registered the enticing scent and he took in the sight that his mother made. Like Harry, she was dressed in expensive, vastly adorned robes. The silk of her bodice was of a powder blue and accentuated her breasts and the curves of her hips sensually, while the skirt of her robes flowed in the same pale blue to the floor in a cascade of ruffles. A light splattering of makeup brushed her eyes, lips, and cheekbones and her hair was done up in a twist of curls upon her head. Diamonds and sapphires hung from her ears and encircled her neck and white gloved wrists, complementing the vivid coloring of her eyes even more so than her robes. She looked beautiful. Harry told her as much.

"You look quite dashing yourself, young man." Lily smiled at her son, as she surveyed him in his dress robes in return. Every inch of the dark fabric had been designed to empower her son's image and was doing its job marvelously, erasing the youth that defined him as an unready lord and weaving the appearance of a sure and capable wizard in its place. Harry wouldn't merely be her and James's son tonight, nor would he be ever again after this night. He looked the part of Baron of the Peak, if nothing else.

"Dad's meeting us there?" Harry asked. If he thought that killing Rufus Scrimgeour would put an end to his father having to work double shifts, he would have done it last week. Unfortunately, it seemed that the Ministry truly was  _that_ desperate to have its employees working as many hours as possible – what with people beginning to pour into the country for the upcoming Quidditch World Cup and all the preparations being made for the Triwizard Tournament. Therefore, killing his father's boss wouldn't get his father anymore time off. It would only increase the amount of hours that his father would have to work, as the Ministry would be down a man.

Lily's smile became forced, coming across as more of a grimace. "He's been assigned to the security detail for the ball."

Harry nodded. His father would be present, but working. It wasn't an ideal scenario. He'd been hoping to have his father at his side acting as a guide, as well as a buffer. Knowing that he wouldn't have his father's support for a good majority of the night, spiked his preexisting anxiety.

"Harry, you don't have to do this," Lily said softly, her concern tone and perceptive eyes suggesting that she desired to say more, but knew that no words that she voiced on the matter would make a difference to his resolve. She stepped closer to her son and reached out to place a gentle hand on his cheek. It was a silent plea that spoke their doubts and requested cowardice.

Harry turned away from the gesture, rejecting the request. A pang of guilt washed through him, as his mother dropped her hand and looked to him with hurt that she tried to hide, but failed to do so completely.

"You don't have to do this," Lily said again, a detectable tremor in her voice undercutting her conviction. "Tell your father –"

"Dad isn't forcing me." Harry narrowed his eyes at his mother, his guilt shifting back to irritation – this time the feeling being directed at his mother, instead of his cravat. He imagined that he'd have to deny his father forcing his hand for some time, until people realized how minuscule a hold his father had over his person and his actions.

"Harry, you're still very young." Lily reached for his hand this time. He allowed her to take it, but met her imploring gaze beseeching his compliance with indifferent eyes. "It's not too late. You could wait until you've your NEWTs and are out of Hogwarts. You don't have to declare yourself tonight."

"Mum, I love you dearly," Harry gave his mother's hand a reassuring squeeze that communicated his sincerity, "but you're wrong. This  _is_  something that I have to do tonight. I have a responsibility not just you, Dad, and Bethany, but to the people of my district and to the people of Britain who will benefit from my voice in the Wizengamot. If I wait, it may be too late to make a difference, where making a difference truly matters."

Lily gave a resigned sigh, her demeanor acknowledging the determination in her son's words and stubborn set of his jaw. She squeezed Harry's hand in return, as if to tell him that she wasn't disappointed in his decision, merely mourning his youth. "You're so willful, just like your father."

Harry smiled. "He says that I get my pig-headedness from you."

"He would," Lily said with a combination of affection and amusement, as a tentative smile graced her face once more and she released Harry's hand and reached up to fix his cravat. "You and Bethany…you both got a double dose, didn't you?"

"It seems so," Harry agreed and tilted his head back to allow his mother room to work the cravat loose and correct his pour excuse for a knot.

"You'll be careful tonight," Lily said sternly, her nimble fingers lightly tickling against Harry's neck, as she loosed the cravat from his neck and robes with a soft hiss of fabric sliding on fabric.

"Constant vigilance," Harry said and frowned, as his thoughts flitted briefly to Mad-Eye Moody and the fact that the ex-Auror would be locked inside the seventh compartment of the man's own multiple compartment trunk in a little over a month's time. Or so the man would be, if events concerning Voldemort continued to occur similar to how they had in the other world. The fact that Bertha Jorkins had gone missing was a very good indicator that they would. The fact that Pettigrew was supposedly dead in this world, however, was indicative that they wouldn't. But, then again, Pettigrew had faked his death in the other world as well, just at a much earlier point in the timeline.

"Your father and Sirius will shadow you. Stay within their sight."

Harry hummed his acquiescence to his mother's instructions, as she formed his cravat into a proper knot and drew it snug against his neck. Personally, he wasn't concerned about his safety, but if it would make his parents feel better, he wouldn't wander – unless he was given a very good reason to do so, that is.

What concerned Harry about the affair was the politics of the matter. The correct way to go about declaring himself would be to present himself to the Minister of Magic and the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot in private, followed by presenting himself to the Wizengamot as a whole body and publishing a Declaration of Intent in the  _Daily Prophet_  for the public's perusal _._  To do things properly, however, would risk far more than he was willing to risk. Not to mention, the annual ball that the Ministry hosted in honor of the Boy-Who-Lived's birthday presented him with a far too perfect opportunity to initiate a preemptive strike aimed at securing his position; for he knew how Fudge and Dumbledore worked. If he went about things properly, the two men would make every effort to bury his ambitions before he ever reached the Wizengamot chamber.

Fudge, Harry knew, would reject his claim of Peverell descent and would object to him inheriting the East Midlands, along with him assuming the title of Baron of the Peak and the hereditary seat on the Wizengamot that came with the lands and title, purely out of fear for his own position. The stout man had a good thing going at the moment and a potential change to the current political climate could all too easily threaten the life of easy and luxury that the Minister enjoyed.

Dumbledore, on the other hand, would object to his youth, while silently disapproving of his decision to declare himself a son of Peverell. The aged wizard would be of the mind that the move was one just asking for trouble, which was the truth, as well as the point. Harry, however, wasn't about to read Dumbledore in on his situation or his future plans, as the man would disagree with, if not his objectives, then his methods. There was also the fact that Dumbledore was currently charged with overseeing the East Midlands, and though Harry felt that Dumbledore had built up enough political capital over the years that his source of power was not at all dependent upon his management of the East Midlands, he wasn't confident that Dumbledore wouldn't hold the loss of the district against him or attempt to subvert his rightful claim to what remained of the Honour of Peverell. He knew Dumbledore to be a good man, but the headmaster was a master strategist and usually protected his interests with cunning on par to the dirtiest of politicians. If the East Midlands were of significance to Dumbledore, he would face some pretty serious opposition.

The difference in their motivations aside, both men would have been united on the matter of his ascension, and Harry wasn't particularly fond of his odds in going up against the Minister of Magic and the Chief Warlock in a private sit-down. If he achieved anything tonight, it would be turning the public's eye upon the matter, which would still the hand of most, if not all underhanded attempts to usurp him quietly and would force whatever opposition there was to his ascension onto the politic stage for the public to see and speculate about.

As Lily smoothed down the front of her son's robes, which she had just finished refastening the vest of over his cravat, she said, "I don't know what I'll do, if something happens to you."

"Nothing is going to happen to me," Harry promised with such sincerity and confidence that Lily blinked, startled by his conviction.

– – – – –

Mother and son portkeyed away from their family cottage in Godric Hollow and were subsequently deposited in the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic in London at precisely seven o'clock. The vast, high ceilinged hall with its polished wood floors, dark marble columns, and window inlayed walls that extend and marked the upper floors of the Ministry was filled with many witches and wizards all dressed to impress and ranging in age from Hogwarts aged youths to nineteenth century adults. The majority of people were conglomerated in small group before the majestic double doors that faced the Fountain of Magical Brethren. The gold statues of the fountain were as royal in appearance as they were a lie and were even more ostentatious than usual with the addition of fairies weaving between their forms and playing in their jets of water and the sparkling pool at their base.

As Harry walked with his mother on his arm over to a familiar blond haired man of average height and wiry build, the double doors opened with a click of the latch giving way that echoed throughout the hall and gave pause to the many conversations. Harry paid no mind to the groups, as they began filing into the ballroom beyond in an orderly, yet excited fashion. His focus was on Dwight Earnshaw and the alcove that the man had snagged.

"Lord Peverell, Mrs. Potter," Mr. Earnshaw greeted with a pleasant smile and bowed to Harry, before kissing the knuckles of Lily's offered hand. "How do you do?"

"How do you do, Mr. Earnshaw?" Lily returned. "Is Helen here tonight?"

"Sadly, no, and I won't be staying very long myself," Mr. Earnshaw said with a keen light in his eyes. "Ben has been acting up the last few days."

Lily's face brightened, making her smile all the more brilliant. "You've named him."

"Benjamin Dwight Earnshaw," the dad to be said proudly and nodded.

"It's a wholesome name," Lily said kindly. "Helen must be getting anxious."

"She not the only one," Mr. Earnshaw said truthfully, a hint of his nervousness showing through his calm demeanor.

"For what it's worth," Harry pinned the man with an earnest look, "I have no doubts that you'll be a good father, if you treat your son half as well as you've treated my family. You're a good man."

"Thank you, my lord." Mr. Earnshaw flushed, appearing to be truly touched.

"I'll let you two get down to business," Lily said, as she glanced between her son and Mr. Earnshaw. She kissed Harry on the cheek and detangled their entangled arms. "I must find Bethany. I will see you both inside."

As his mother's heels clacked away, growing fainter with her every step, Harry maintained his focus on Mr. Earnshaw, who returned his gaze unwaveringly.

"One last signature?" Harry asked, breaking the silence between them.

"No." Mr. Earnshaw reached into the breast pocket of his maroon robes and removed a gold leafed card. "All the paperwork was taken care of the day before last and was quietly pushed through the proper channels yesterday. I merely need to give you this," he held out the card in offer to Harry, "and wish to give you my congratulations, before the night sweeps us away."

Harry accepted the card. A thrill of anticipation mixed with apprehension slithered down his spine and momentarily stilled his breath, as he looked past the vanity of the card and read the embossed words rippling its surface.

_The Right Honorable Harold Peverell,  
The Baron of the Peak_

It was an crier's card – the one that he would pass to the crier, upon entering the ballroom in a few minute's time – the one that the crier would read out for all to hear, unknowingly declaring him.

_This is it,_  Harry thought, as he stared down at the card. For whatever reason, the title of Baron of the Peak felt more real to him than his title of Gray Lord of Europe ever had in the other world. Baron of the Peak; it was his to own, his birthright. Perhaps that was the difference. He didn't know. All he did know was that he had just been handed a potentially devastating weapon, one he would wield against Voldemort's influence and the general rot that infected the upper echelons of Britain's magical society, yet it was a deadly one that could turn upon him, if he didn't watch his back and handle it with care.

"My wife and I live in your district, my lord," Mr. Earnshaw said, drawing Harry's attention back to him. "We look forward to the changes that you'll bring, as will many others. It's nothing against the Chief Warlock – he's a busy man – but, due to how busy he is, his focus has never been on what the district needs or desires. I know you will do better."

"Thank you, Mr. Earnshaw," Harry held out his right hand, "for everything."

"Just doing my job, my lord." Mr. Earnshaw shook Harry's hand.

As Mr. Earnshaw graced him with one last smile and inclined his head towards the ballroom, Harry took back his hand and nodded. "Give your wife my best."

"I will, my lord," Mr. Earnshaw assured. "Good luck tonight." And with their farewells exchanged, he turned away from Harry to join the queue outside the ballroom.

Harry leaned against the wall of the alcove, as he watched Mr. Earnshaw's retreating back. The whine of violins and the sweet melody of flutes combined with the soft tenor of a piano and the undertones of a cello told of the ball truly beginning. He hummed along to the pleasant tune, as more and more people arrived. As was accustom with such events, the later one arrived the more important he or she was. Wealthy business owners and influential Ministry works became Ministry department heads and elected members of the Wizengamot. Dumbledore soon arrived in the company of Minister Fudge, Barty Crouch Sr., and Ludo Bagman. By this point, the orchestra had been quieted to a low drone, so the crier could be heard clearly, as he announced each person of importance.

" _The Right Honorable Algernon Longbottom, The Baron of the Lakes! – The Honorable Frank Longbottom, Head Auror of Squad Delta! Lady Alice of the Noble House of Longbottom, 5_ _th_ _Chair of the Hogwarts Board of Governors! – Guest of Honor, Mr. Neville Longbottom, The Boy-Who-Lived!" w_ as the first issue of cries that announced the arrival of the Noble Houses.

A great wave of applause and an increase in chatter emitted from the ballroom.

" _The Right Honorable Lachlan Burke, The Baron of the Bogs! The Right Honorable Elodia Burke, The Lady of the Bogs! – The Honorable Sage Burke, guest Alison Urquhart! – The Honorable Celesta Burke! – The Honorable Tomas Burke! Lady Patricia of the Noble House of Burke!"_  curbed the increased chatter and, after an intermittent pause, was followed by,  _"The Right Honorable Ferdinand Macmillan, The Baron of the Isles! The Right Honorable Agatha Macmillan, The Lady of the Isles! – The Honorable Joffrey Macmillan, Order of Merlin, Second Class, Hit Wizard: rank Triple-Star! Lady Delphi of the Noble House of Macmillan! – Ms. Serena Macmillan, guest Vidal Harkiss, Hit Wizard: rank Single-Star! – Mr. Louis Macmillan, guest Kathrin Bell! – The Honorable Henry Macmillan, 11_ _th_ _Chair of the Hogwarts Board of Governors! Lady Anne of the Noble House of Macmillan! – Mr. Ernest Macmillan!"_

Harry listened intently to the crier, as the man announced each person and he observed the Noble Houses enter the ballroom: the O' Cuinns, the Pritchards, the Vanes, the Selwyns, the Greengrasses, the Dunbars, the Talvaces, the Malfoys, and, lastly, the Blacks.

" _The Right Honorable Sirius Black, The Baron of the Channel! The Right Honorable Mayra Black, The Lady of the Channel!"_

Harry cast a tempus spell.  _19:27,_  the glowing magic read suspended before him. He shrugged off of the alcove wall. It was time.

The two Aurors stationed on either side of the double doors that led to the ballroom regarded Harry warily, as he approached, his footfalls echoing with a steady, confident rap on the hardwood floor of the Atrium. The female Auror –  _short, blonde, fit_  – had been first to notice him secluded within the shadows of the alcove opposite their post and had subtly pointed him out to her male partner –  _oaf, not as stupid as he looks_. Both had been keeping an eye on him, though they appeared to have been the only ones to notice him lingering just out of sight.

Harry flashed the Aurors his crier's card, once he was close enough for them to make out the Ministry of Magic seal that was inlayed within the gold leaf of the card. The woman nodded, and he was allowed to pass unhindered. The lax security did not instill Harry with confidence for Britain's future in this world. But, then again, no one but him, Dumbledore, and probably select members of the Order of the Phoenix knew that all was not well, and he was fairly confident that only he, his father, and Sirius knew that they were currently at war – a small, private war for the time being, but a war nonetheless.


	19. Declared

The ballroom was as grand and elaborately decorated as was to be expected. That was the first thing Harry noticed, upon stepping through the double door threshold and onto the dark marble balcony that wrapped the expansive dance floor of the same dark marble one story below. The gold tendrils in the marble that had been used to construct not only the dance floor and balcony, but the entire room, and the enormous, five hundred candle, gold chandelier dominating the center rib vault of the lofty ceiling, lighting the room with a spectacular gold hue, were complemented by fanciful, gold hangings with the Ministry of Magic seal embroidered into their silk weave, which were draped every ten feet or so over the artistically carve banisters of the balcony, as well as complemented by rich gold banners embroidered with light gold writing, which hung on the Corinthian style columns that supported the balcony and extended up to support the series of rib vaults high overhead. The banners flashed with showers of gold sparks and read: 'Happy Birthday', 'Neville Longbottom', and 'The Boy-Who-Lived', interchangeably.

Harry had only just taken note of where the orchestra was setup in the shadows on the other side of the balcony, when the crier noticed him and looked to him with confusion.

Continuing his swift, confident stride, Harry stepped past the two aurors stationed just inside the double doors. The one on the right he recognized as John Dawlish and the other he didn't know, but thought had to be a rookie considering the young man's youthful appearance and nervous demeanor. He extended his crier's card to the gold robed crier and watched the crier's face carefully, as the man took the card from him and silently read the name embossed on its surface. He was not the least bit surprised, when the crier looked up from the card and frowned at him with uncertainty.

In response, Harry raised an eyebrow at the man, as if asking if the man was so incompetent such that he couldn't fulfill the simple task that had been assigned to him as the crier for the night. It was an intimidating, cynical look that had usually had his lieutenants in the other world jumping over each other in an effort to prove that they weren't a bunch of useless idiots and were actually capable of leading the men under their command and could, indeed, fulfill the duties that he had charged them with. Twenty-three or fourteen, the ability to convey one's meaning and intent with a single, well placed look was to conduct one's environment more effectively than any amount of flowery or heated words ever could.

The crier reddened in embarrassment under the force of Harry's silent mocking and mumbled a hasty apology, before retaking his post and motioning for the orchestra – which had begun to pick up in volume – to quiet once more.

The dancing had yet to truly begin, as greetings were still being exchanged amongst those who had most recently arrive, but the sudden decline in the volume of the orchestra was noticeable to the few who had taken up dancing and gave pause to those who had formed into socializing groups around the edges of the dance floor. As people began looking around to find the source of the interruption, their eyes locked on Harry, who had stepped up to the top of the grand, marble staircase that descended down to the dance floor.

"The Right Honorable Harold Peverell, The Baron of the Peak!" the crier intoned clearly.

Despite his insides doing an anxious twist with the sense of finality that was brought by the crier's cry, Harry retained a calm manner about his person, as he began to descend the stairs. His every step – dress shoes tapping on marble – could be heard distinctly in the quiet that had followed the crier declaring him, as a heavy tension sprung up and filled the silence that was only countered by the low whine of the orchestra.

From a brief scan of the room, Harry could see that reactions were varied. It was all too easy for him to tell those who understood the actual significance of who he was claiming to be and what he had just done, if he truly was who he had just been declared as, from those who didn't. Curious confusion marred the faces of those who didn't have a full grasp on the situation, while shock had momentarily been prevalent amongst those who did, which had transformed all to quickly into speculation, intrigue, distrust, and a few people even displayed looks of open hostility and incredulity that they subsequently quashed with masks of indifference.

Harry didn't focus on any one person or group of persons for more than a few seconds. A passing glance was all he needed to know where potential allies lie and where enemies would be met. As he had predicted, Fudge was none too happy and had a pronounced scowl set upon his pudgy face, as the man's beady eyes swept over him with skepticism and a touch of trepidation. Ever the master of retaining a benevolent, unfazed countenance, Dumbledore watched his descent with polite intrigue that hid the shock that the man had initially experienced, yet did nothing to hide the calculating way the Chief Warlock was analyzing every facet of his person. Lucius Malfoy was, naturally, watching him with a superior air that only just betrayed the fact that the man even considered his existence worth acknowledgement.

_You damn well better acknowledge it,_  Harry thought at the pompous blond.  _I'll be coming for you soon enough. Whether you survive the encounter will depend entirely on your ability to acknowledge that I'm a greater threat to you and your family than the Dark Lord ever was or will be._

By the time Harry had reached the base of the stairs, he had taken specific note of several people's reactions and filed them away for future reference. With nearly all eyes still on him, following his every move, and the orchestra slowly rising back up to proper volume, he focused his attention on the Guest of Honor. Neville Longbottom, dressed in fine tailored, teal and cream dress robes, was as fit as ever and roughly an inch taller than when Harry last saw him two months ago – the blond boy's gangly frame beginning to rival Ron Weasley's in the height department. At taking note of the redness of the lightning bolt scar marring Neville's forehead, a sense of sadness coupled with determination filled Harry. If he played his part well in the coming months, Neville would never have find out what it is like to have to face Voldemort (reborn and at the height of his power) in a duel to the death. Prophecy or not, unwitting horcrux or not, Voldemort's downfall would not be a responsibility shouldered by a child. Not this time.

"Happy Birthday, Mr. Longbottom," Harry said, as he stepped up to Neville and gave the boy a friendly grin.

Neville, ever the observant one, titled his head ever so slightly to the side and looked Harry up and down with a perplexed look set upon his round face, as if he knew that he should know Harry, but couldn't quite put his finger on how Harry was familiar to him. Considering the changes that he had undergone in the last month and the fact that his hair was tame for once, as well as the fact that his choice of dress was radically different to what it had been a month ago, especially his selection of dress robes for the night, Harry wasn't at all put out that Neville didn't recognize him right away. In fact, he would have been astonished if anyone, even Albus Dumbledore, had immediately connected his persona of Harold Peverell with the shy, mentally trouble boy that he had been known to be as Harry Potter.

It wasn't until Neville met his fellow youth's emerald gaze directly that recognition seemed to dawn on him, causing amused, delighted laughter to erupt from deep within him. Harry grinned broadened in return to Neville's enthusiasm and he allowed himself to be pulled into a welcoming embrace by his teenage self's one true friend in this world who was outside of his immediate family and was of his own generation.

"You're here!" Neville exclaimed happily, as he and Harry separated from their hug that had lasted just long enough to be brotherly, yet not truly intimate.

"I am," Harry agreed.

"Wow!" Neville looked Harry up and down a second time. "When I didn't see you with your mother and Bethany, I thought… Well, I certainly didn't expect this. I mean, I heard that you'd gone to the continent, but still…" he trailed off, a look of consternation marring his brow. After a short pause, however, his face smoothed and his smile returned. "It's good that you're here."

Harry understood the true meaning of Neville's words: it's good that you're well, all too easily. That was one of the things that he had always like about this world's Neville. The blond boy refused to draw attention to the fact that he wasn't exactly normal, let alone ever refer to his nightmares as an illness. Just like the other world's Neville, this world's Neville was loyal to a fault. They had grown up together, played together long before he had ever had his first nightmare, and, over the years, the brotherly bond that had developed between them in their toddler days hadn't changed, even if they had grown apart to an extent. Neville refused to allow it to change. Even under peer pressure, the blond boy had never pushed him away or turned his back on him.

"We'll talk later," Harry leaned in and promised Neville quietly, knowing that Neville would want to know what had happened to him, before he turned his attention to Neville's parents and great-uncle. "Lord Longbottom." He bowed to Algernon Longbottom, before straightening and inclining his head in a polite gesture of acknowledgement to Frank and Alice Longbottom. "Auror Longbottom, Lady Alice."

"Lord Peverell," Algernon said, the elderly gentleman's grizzled whiskers twitching slightly, as he spoke, and his bespectacled eyes fixed upon Harry, showing not the distrust that he had displayed a few moments prior, but respect for a fellow baron. He bowed a half bow, as to not strain his frail body hidden beneath his extravagant, cream dress robes – leaning heavily on his polished ivory walking cane, while his gnarled hand gripped the bear's head that formed the cane's gold handle tightly.

Frank, his blond hair combed back neatly and dressed in his deep red Auror Formal dress robes with his Head Auror badge pinned to his breast, bowed somewhat stiffly, while Alice, her dark curls swirled atop the crown of her head and dressed in a light pink robe that complemented Frank's uniform, curtsied graciously and favored Harry with a smile.

"The summer has treated you well, my lord," Alice said, as her dark eyes swept over Harry in a mothering fashion.

"The summer has been most demanding," Harry corrected good-naturedly.

"Yet you thrive more than you ever have," Alice returned knowingly, her eyes telling him that the changes in him were far too apparent in their positive effect to argue otherwise.

"Perhaps," Harry said, conceding the point, yet knowing that he had thrived to an even greater extent in the other world. Not that anyone outside his father and godfather would ever know it.

"There is no perhaps about it, my lord," Algernon said firmly, drawing Harry's attention back to him. The elderly man was studying Harry circumspectly. "Your parents must be very proud."

"–  _or_  very foolish. I dare say very foolish indeed."

"Lord Selwyn," Algernon greeted tersely, his eyes snapping up and stilling over Harry's left shoulder.

Before Harry could even turn, a clean shaven man in his fifties, who was of average height and a somewhat portly around the middle, was beside him and looking down at him with a face scrunched up and filled contempt, as if he were in the presence of something truly horrendous. A woman of the same age, who was rail thin and vulture-esque in her appearance, had her nose up in the air, and was clearly pretending that Harry and the Longbottoms didn't exist, was on the man's arm. Both were dressed in rather ostentatious dress robes. The man's robes were of a deep blue silk and would have been normal enough, if it weren't for the silver sparks of magic that flashed here and there, somewhat giving the impression that the man was wearing the night sky. The woman's robes, however, were a cycling rainbow of color. It took Harry a moment to figure out that her robes were meant to complete the theme of her husband's robes and depict the sky during the day, as the sun passes overhead. Pink hues in the morning, brilliant blues at high noon, an orange glow as the sun sets over the horizon, and repeat, one color fading into the next.

_Overcompensating,_  Harry thought, as he scanned his eyes over the magical robes. While the robes would have impressed a muggle or someone who couldn't charm a tea cozy, the charms used on the robes were basic and didn't even give the full impression that the Selwyns wished to give. Which left two options: the Selwyns had a tailor who was terrible at charms and couldn't afford a better one, or the Selwyns had added the charms themselves and were lacking in magical prowess. Either way, they wished to appear to be more than what they actually were. As the robes were of silk and tailored perfectly, Harry was inclined to believe that the Selwyns' tailor knew what he or she was doing and the Selwyns had added the charms to the robes themselves.  _Definitely overcompensating._

"Just how is it that  _you_ have come to inherit the Peverell legacy?" Lord Selwyn asked with a snide, pompous air, addressing Harry as if he were truly nothing more than a child who was attempting to play dress up and didn't understand his proper place in society. "All present, myself included, have been under the impression that  _that_  particular bloodline was dead. Yet, here you stand claiming the Peverell name and legacy as brazen as can be…"

An angry, disapproving huff to his right drew Harry's attention back to Algernon, who was now glaring daggers at Lord Selwyn and gripping his cane tight enough to turn his knuckles completely white. It was plain to see that the elderly gentleman was not incensed on his behalf.  _Yes, Lord Longbottom, because I am so much more susceptible to a subtle approach,_  Harry thought with derision. The instant that Algernon had brought up his parents, he had known the direction their conversation was headed – not that he hadn't known even before the crier had declared him that his lineage would come under question at one point or another before the night's end.

Without emotion upon his face to betray his inner thoughts, Harry returned his attention to Lord Selwyn, who was clearly expecting an articulated response, or perhaps just a bit of stammering. "I imagine, Lord Selwyn," he said, looking up at the salt-and-peppered haired man and ignoring Lady Selwyn just as she was pretending to ignore him, "that the process of my inheriting the Honour of Peverell was not much different to the one you underwent to inherit the Selwyn Estate. Though, the authentication of my lineage most definitely took a considerable time longer than it had for you to prove your birthright by one generation. Seven hundred years, after all, makes for many generations between myself and the last true Baron of the Peak. Ministry Certified Solicitor and Licensed Authenticator, Mr. Dwight Earnshaw was more than up to the task, nonetheless."

Harry paused and gave Lord Selwyn a look that bored on being patronizing, judging the man to be of the blustering, self-important type, who didn't have a strong bite behind his bark – much like his muggle uncle, Vernon Dursley. "As it has been so long since my nineteenth great-grandfather, Ignotus, lived and breathed as a public figure, yours and other's misconceptions about my family's continued existence are understandable. I suppose I must not hold you're misguided convictions against you. It would be unfair of me." He moved his gaze over Lord Selwyn assessingly, giving the impression that he was considering the man's merit, though he had already formulated his opinion about the man. "I assume that your rudeness at present was conducted with the continued preservation of the Honour of Peverell – through true blood or by proper administration – in mind…that is…unless you wish for me to believe differently."

The low hiss and murmur of whispered conversations around Harry, the Longbottoms, and the Selwyns quieted no sooner than they had begun. Once more, Harry found many eyes were trained upon him. If he wasn't so used to people attempting to listen into his conversations, he might have been pissed about the blatant eavesdropping. As it was, he had come to assume that any and all conversations held in public were, by de facto, public conversations. In fact, more often than not, he counted on conversations held public being overheard. Nothing could misdirect the enemy better than false information acquired by a spy who believed that he or she had acquired the information by stealth.

Lord Selwyn held Harry's gaze for ten heartbeats, a shade of anger and apparent wariness combating his superior sense of self. He bowed his head to Harry in a grudging gesture of respect, seeming to understand that though Harry was young, he was no easy target and might possibly be a formidable enemy. "You believe correctly, my lord. Please excuse me."

Harry knew that that was probably the best that he'd get from the man and so raised no objection, when the man proceeded to turn away from him and the Longbottoms and directed his wife towards the dance floor.

"Isn't the House of Potter seven hundred years old?"

Harry looked to Neville and beamed. "Why, yes, Neville! What an astute observation! Now, if you have no one else to greet, celebratory drinks and dancing with beautiful women are in order."

"Can't argue with that," Neville said, looking at Harry like he wasn't quite sure what to make of him, despite being more than agreeable to his suggestion of drinks and dancing.

The two teenagers slipped away from the crowd of high ranking, political figures without anyone trying to stop them or call them back.

"Dumbledore was looking at you as if you were a fascinating new hybrid species of Venomous Tentacula and Devil's Snare," Neville commented a bit too casually, as he and Harry headed over to the butterbeer fountain that doubled as an intricate ice sculpture of flowering vines twisting around themselves, which had been placed conveniently under the right side of the wrap around balcony and next to a long buffet style table dressed with a fancy gold table cloth bearing the Ministry of Magic seal, which held an assortment of hors d'oeuvres.

"Was he?" Harry asked, attempting to figure out if being regarded as a new hybrid species of Venomous Tentacula and Devil's Snare was beneficial to his agenda or not.

Neville was similar to Hagrid, when it came to dangerous things. Cute and fluffy in Hagrid-tongue equated to fascinating and ingenious in Neville-speak. The only difference was that one was talking about dragons, while the other was talking about a plant that could consume a man whole, if not 'breathe' flames as well. Harry hadn't been paying all that much attention to Dumbledore, as it wasn't Dumbledore's intrigue that he had been after and he hadn't wanted it to seem like it was. Spiking the Chief Warlock intrigue was unavoidable, yes. But there was a difference between spiking intrigue and purposefully generating it. So the question now was whether Dumbledore was curious or wary of him. With being regard as a new hybrid species of Venomous Tentacula and Devil's Snare according to Neville, it could go either way. Neville, at least, had the sense to know when something was dangerous and required caution, unlike Hagrid who thought that a Cerberus was a perfectly fine pet.

"Mm-hmm." Neville didn't elaborate.

"Was he curious or wary, Neville?" Harry asked. He was going to have to train Neville on how to give a helpful report.

"I told you, he was looking at you as if you were a new hybrid species of Venomous Tentacula and Devil's Snare." Neville shrugged. "You know, like a Venomous Snare or a Devil's Tentacula." He paused. "I wonder, if they  _can_ be crossed. A Devil's Snare with the Venomous Tentacula's abilities and resistance to light would be an even more effective guard plant. Great-Uncle Algie bought me a book on…"

Harry tuned out Neville's introspective ramblings, as he turned away from the blond boy to capture him and Neville each a glass of butterbeer from one of the ice flower's pouring the frothing, gold colored substance in an endless stream. He didn't like dealing with Devil's Snare or Venomous Tentacula, when they were separate. Merlin forbid, if he had to handle a hybrid of the two. Knowing Neville, though, there would be a hybrid species, as soon as his friend figured out how to accomplish it.

"Cheers, mate." Harry passed Neville a mug of butterbeer and held up his own. "Fourteen and counting!"

"Back at you," Neville said and  _clink_ ed his mug with Harry's. It wasn't actually either of their birthdays, but they drank to their birthdays anyway. The 29th was close enough the 30th and the 31st.

"What do you think?" Neville asked, looking to Harry with expectation and a eager, excited light in his eyes.

"Great, I think it's great," Harry said, not entirely sure what they were talking about but assuming that Neville's question had something do with the cultivation of a Venomous Snare or whatever Neville would name his hybrid.

"Great-Uncle Algie will probably go for it, but Dad doesn't like me spending so much time in the greenhouse, you know. I might be able to harvest the seeds this season, though, and next season I could…" Neville continued his one-sided herbology discussion.

Being sure to listen to Neville with a half ear, in case if Neville said something that required a response or asked for his opinion, Harry sipped at his butterbeer – enjoying the cool, sweet nectar and the carbonation tickling his nose and filling senses – and scanned the ballroom. A few people were still surreptitiously watching him and Neville, but most had taken up conversation with those closest to them or had taken to the dance floor, swaying and gliding to the orchestra in accordance to their dancing inclinations. A good majority of the party attendees were adults, he noted. Yet, the grouping of Hogwarts students congregated in the left hand corner of the room was difficult to miss. Amongst the privileged youths were the usual suspects: Draco Malfoy, Gavid and Dunhan Talvace, Daphne and Astoria Greengrass, Celesta Burke, Maisie and Fay Dunbar, Ernie Macmillan, Susan Bones, Zacharias Smith, Anthony Goldstein, Padma and Parvati Patil, Lavender and Daniel Brown, Cassius and Astra Warrington, Lucian Bole, Zinnia, Pansy, and Bennett Parkinson, Blaise Zabini, Thorburn Urquhart…

"…and I'll use Bethany as a human incubator for the seedlings."

"Mum would never allow it," Harry said, as he turned away from his taking of attendance and back to Neville. "Neither would I."

"Just checking to see if you were listening." Neville smiled innocently.

"Where  _is_  Bethany?" Harry asked, his eyes moving to scan the room. Romilda Vane and Victoria Frobisher were among the other Hogwarts aged guests, hanging off of Zacharias Smith's every word. His sister, however, wasn't anywhere in sight.

"She's with your dad and none too happy." Neville nodded to their right.

Looking around Neville and further along the darker recesses of the balcony overhang, Harry saw his sister having a quiet, yet heated conversation with their father, who looked every inch of an Auror in his Auror Formal dress robes. Harry sighed, as he took in his sister's state. The upset flush coloring her face was clashing with her violet robes and her eye makeup appeared smudged at the corners. And if the light of the oil lamps adorning the walls every so many feet wasn't playing tricks, tear tracks stained her cheeks.

"Her and Dad are a bad combination these days," Harry said regretfully, shifting his gaze in search of his mother, who he hoped would be able to resolve the situation quietly. Upon locating his mother amongst a grouping of guests across the room and seeing that she was otherwise engaged by none other than Albus Dumbledore and Cornelius Fudge, he sighed a second time. "Pardon me." He gave Neville an apologetic look.

"I'll just get a head start on dancing," Neville said and frowned in the direction of their peers. Harry and Bethany were the only ones from Neville's usual crowd of friends in attendance of the ball. The current object on his affections, Ms. Hannah Abbott, was not in attendance, nor was Ms. Ginevra Weasley, his second closest female friend after Bethany.

"Fay's decent enough," Harry offered, unable to keep the all too knowing grin off of his face.  _It's always the quite ones._

"You  _are_  going to tell me what you've done with my friend, Lord Peverell," Neville said sternly, his lips twitching at the corners and amusement dancing in his eyes.

"Later," Harry promised.

"But not tonight."

"But not tonight," Harry agreed. Neville always was quick on the up take – a trait he both loved and hated about his friend in both worlds, as it meant that it was rather difficult to slip much of anything past the blond. "Now I really must go rescue my sister…or my father. I'm not entirely sure which."

Neville laughed. "My galleons are on your father."

As Neville headed over to their fellow Hogwarts aged guests with his eyes set upon The Honorable Fay Dunbar, Harry headed up the seclusion of the balcony overhang, in the direction of his father and sister.

"Not so fast," a familiar voice said, as an arm slipped over his shoulders and the scent of spirits and cigar smoke filed Harry's lungs.

"Sirius," Harry greeted, wondering just when his godfather had discarded his sobriety for the night. He cast a glance in his father and sister's direction. He and Sirius were far enough away that they remained unnoticed by the two. As he still couldn't hear what was being said between them, though he was several paces closer to them, and had develop a buzzing in his ears, he gathered that his father was using the Muffliato Charm to block their conversation from being overheard _._

"You go find a lovely young lady to dance with," Sirius said, his words steady and firm, as the man leaned close to Harry in order to keep  _their_  conversation from being overheard. "I'll take care of Bethany." And before Harry could even give any sort of response, Sirius was striding off in the direction of James and Bethany.

Deciding to take his godfather's advice and leave Sirius to defuse whatever the issue was between his father and sister, Harry turn towards the dance floor and set off in the direction of his Hogwarts peers.


	20. Hostage

Ballroom dancing had never been Harry's forte. In the other world, he had learned the basics during his fourth year at Hogwarts, as he had been required to open the Yule Ball held that year, and had stuck strictly to the basics ever since, whenever an occasion had demand that he hit the dance floor. In this world, his mother had once attempted to teach him how to ballroom dance, but she was no better at it than he had been in the other world.

As Harry danced with the beautiful brunette in his arms, he found himself wishing that he knew how to properly execute something a bit more impressive than keeping them in tempo with the orchestra and the other dancers around them. His dance partner, however, didn't seem at all concerned that he was only capable of the most basic of dance steps, merely guiding them confidently about the dance floor _without_ injuring her toes or bumping them into any of the other couples. Her smile was content and her hazel eyes were bright with silent curiosity, as she stared up at him. After the many excitable and flirty girls he had ended up dancing with throughout the course of the night, Daphne Greengrass was a surprise, as well as a welcome breath of fresh air.

With the last wine of the violin fading softly, bring with it the end of the movement, Harry spun Daphne to a stop, bowed, and kissed the knuckle of her gloved right hand, as tradition dictated. Straightening, he made to lead her off of the dance floor.

"My lord," Daphne said, pulling them to a stop.

The next movement began; flutes rising in harmony with an upbeat tempo.

Daphne cast a furtive glance in the direction of their Hogwarts peers gathered at the edge of the dance floor a short distance away, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly at the group of older year males attempting to woe the prettiest girls into dancing with them. "I know it is improper for a lady to request a dance from a lord, especially one she barely knows, but would you grant me one more dance?"

Having not been looking forward to selecting another dance partners anymore than she appeared to desire to be selected by another of their peers, Harry smiled. "It would be my pleasure," he said and pulled her close to him once more, his left hand retaking her dainty right and his right hand moving to cup the warmth of her bare shoulder blade.

As the current movement was far more upbeat than the last, the two fell swiftly into a fast pace waltz, gliding across the dance floor in step with the couples around them. Satisfaction radiated deep within Harry at seeing Daphne's eye light up with enjoyment, as they circled the dance floor faster and with more energy than they had previously.

They danced in silence, both following the crescendos of the orchestra and enjoying the reprieve of having the other to dance with.

"Thank you, my lord," Daphne said with sincerity, upon the dance ending, and allowed Harry to lead her off the dance floor. "You dance well," she said, once they were clear of the dance floor.

"You are a poised dancer yourself, my lady," Harry complemented in return.

"Lady Daphne," a wiry framed young man with a pompous air about his person interrupted, offering his hand to Daphne with clear expectation for her to take it shinning in his intense blue eyes. "May I have this dance?" he asked, sounding very much like the question was only perfunctory. His angular features set with arrogance that only came from being born into excess.

Looking like she would really rather not, Daphne placed her hand in Dunhan Talvace's extended hand and allowed him to lead her back onto the dance floor, casting a longing glance over her shoulder at Harry.

Harry stared after the pair, a part of him disgust with Dunhan for how much he reminded him of a dark haired, slightly older version of Draco Malfoy, while a entirely separate part of him longed for the man he had known in the other world.

"He was most displeased that you stole a second dance, my lord."

Harry looked down and to his right. None other than Romilda Vane batted her eyelashes up at him. He cringed internally. She was barely older than his baby sister, making her so very extremely young and very much off limits in his eyes. Daphne and the other girls he had dance with so far had at least had the beginnings of curves to their hips and well forming breasts.

Spotting Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy chatting with a well built, auburn haired man and a willowy, dark haired woman in the shadows of the balcony not far from where the youngest of generations in attendance of the ball had gather – the four casting surreptitious glances in his direction – Harry excused himself from Romilda and made a beeline for the four. All four adults fell silent at his approach.

Harry put on his most charming smile and met Lucius Malfoy's superior, down the nose gaze with an unperturbed air, before flicking his eyes to meet Narcissa and Lachlan and Elodia Burke's down the nose gazes in turn. While Harry's nerves had been all over the place at the start of the ball – having only ever gotten used to having all eyes on him, never truly enjoying it, and having been not entirely sure about how good of an actual noble he'd make – he had settled into his role as Baron of the Peak with relative easy as the night had progressed and he steady grew more comfortable and confident of his new title, finding that the transition from war general to Lord Peverell came almost naturally to him.

"Lord Malfoy, Lady Malfoy," Harry greeted Lucius and Narcissa with a half bow. "Lord Burke, Lady Burke." He bowed to the Burkes.

The greeting Harry received in return was stiff. Lachlan, his square jaw tense and dark eyes narrowed, looked almost physically pained at having to acknowledge him as Lord Peverell, while Lucius, Narcissa, and Elodia were a bit more gracious about doing so.

"My lord," Harry said, his focus settling on Lucius, "I was hoping –" he began, but was abruptly cut off.

The sudden and terrified screams from the dance floor had Harry whipping around so fast that his wand was only just hitting his hand, snapping out its holster strapped to his wrist, as he turned to face the onslaught. He couldn't even begin to assess what the source of the disturbance was, swarmed by frighten people as he was. The masses pushed in on him, rushing out and away from the dance floor in hopes of finding safety.

The orchestra screeched to halt up on the balcony, replaced by the snaps, bangs, and shouts of spell fire.

Looking up to the balcony across from him, Harry saw that the Aurors working security for the night, who had been station up on the balcony and at the doors, were locked in heated battle with dark robed men pushing their way into the hall, none of which sported the masks of a Death Eater but all of which fought just as dirty as Voldemort's elite had. It appear that the hostiles had rushed doors. And yet …

Harry gritted his teeth, as he pushed his way forward into the oncoming, fearful crowd, warm bodies crushing in on him on all sides and screams puncturing his ears. As he struggled through the crowd, his heart settled into a steady, purposeful rhythm in his chest and his every sense expanded and opened fully to the chaos around him – taking in not only the fear of the crowd and the ozone of dark magic scorching the air, but the tangible, hyper, free and uncontrolled magic pouring off of nearly every being within the hall. When he finally broke through the crowd, he stopped dead, met with a sight that he had known in his gut would be the one that would greet him.

A man with the familiar sleek gray hair and gnarled features of Ferdinand Macmillan had a hold of Neville with his walnut wand jab firmly under the boy's throat. Scanning the now nearly empty dance floor, Harry saw that his father, Frank Longbottom, and Kingsley Shacklebolt were the only Aurors on the floor and that the three were severely out numbered by the enemy. The entire Macmillan party: the elderly Agatha Macmillan, Joffrey Macmillan, a supposed Hit Wizard, Delphi and Serena Macmillan, Serena's date Vidal Harkiss, who was also supposedly a Hit Wizard, Louis Macmillan teamed with his date Katie Bell, Henry and Anna Macmillian, even Ernie had their wands split between the three Aurors and randomly aiming into the panicked crowd still attempting to flee, yet finding nowhere safe to retreat to with the hall's only exit blocked.

Acting on every bit of past experience he had with similar situations, Harry jabbed his wand straight up at the ceiling and fired off a sound blast. The resulting _BANG!_ that resonated throughout the dance hall bordered on eardrum shattering.

A very still and deadly silence dominated the hall in the blast's wake, the loud bang having cut through the heated battles up on the balcony and the flight instinct of the ball attendees.

"Now," Harry said, his voice normal volume, yet sounding extremely loud in the silence that had encompassed the hall. He stepped onto the dance floor, earning the complete and full attention of the enemy, the Aurors present, and the crowd around them. Glancing quickly up at the balcony, he took note that nearly two-thirds of the the Aurors had been captured or incapacitated, while the few who remained free and standing had been backed into the orchestra with no ground to give. Lowering his gaze back down to the situation at hand, he found himself facing several wands. Presenting the air of unconcern regarding the open hostility, he looked to his father on the opposite side of the dance floor. The man met his gaze steadily and Harry slipped into his surface thoughts without meeting even the slightest bit of resistance. He projected a single thought into his father's mind. _'Back off, or people will get killed.'_

If there was one thing Harry was sure off at the moment, the last thing that they needed was for a full out battle to breakout with so many innocents to get caught in the crossfire. With how high tensions were running between the enemy, his father, Frank, and Kingsley, one wrong twitch by any one of them would be all that it would take to set off a devastating melee.

"I'd ask who you're working for, but considering your target, I believe it would be redundant and a waste of time, so let's just get down to it," Harry said, as he returned his piercing gaze back to the impostor, who he suspected had polyjuiced himself as Ferdinand Macmillan, seeing as every last one of the Macmillan's eyes were clear of the Imperius Curse's influence and the attempted kidnapping of the Boy-Who-Lived was way out of character for a family that held Progressive values.

"I'd back off as well, _my lord._ " The impostor tighten his grip on Neville, causing Neville to flinch. The blond's blue eyes were wide with panic and fear and plainly begging for help.

Observing out of the corner of his eye that his father had been successful at getting Frank and Kingsley to back up a few steps, Harry took three powerful strides to his left, bring him closer to the center of the dance floor, yet maintaining an even distance from the impostor holding Neville captive. As he had hoped, the impostor's gaze followed him. The eye contact was so blatant that Harry could practically sense the man's mind, before he even reached out for it. The subtlest of brushes against the man's mind informed him that the man was an Occlumens; a poor one, but one that was decent enough to recognized a straight-up mental attack.

"I assure you, _impostor_ , that there is only one way that this is going to turn out." Harry spoke with frigid clarity, using all the danger and authority that had he had ever possessed as Porteur Demort, Grey Lord of Europe, in the other world. All the while he maintained a ready, yet loose grip on his wand and steady eye contact with the impostor. As he spoke his next words, he added a tonal inflection laced with his intent to his every word, using the most effective tactic that he knew of to externally generating a specific thought stream within the man's mind. One which he could use to slip into the man's mind undetected and ultimately mask his presence with. "You _are_ going to tell me whether the Macmillans are alive or not and what you've done with them. You're _going_ to order your men to surrender peaceful to the DMLE Officers present. And, lastly, you _will_ release Neville Longbottom into the custody of Auror Longbottom here without so much as having drawn a drop of blood from his veins."

"You think so?" the impostor asked mockingly.

Harry only faintly heard, let alone acknowledged that he had heard the man's jeer. Like a knife slicing through butter, he slipped into the man's mind, echoing his words amongst the man's surface thoughts and surrounding his presence with them. He could feel the man startle slightly before doing as most people generally do with a train of thought that they are uncomfortable with or don't care or want to think about. The man pushed the echo of Harry's commanding words towards his subconscious, rejecting them from his conscious mind with derision.

Harry silently assisted him with the endeavor, taking the express lane right into Idriz Demachi's essential existence. His passing between the man's conscious mind and subconscious mind went entirely unnoticed.

Being so close to Demachi's innate life force, Harry felt his stomach squirm queasily back in his body. Just reaching the slightest bit deeper, Demachi's very soul would be his play thing, if he so chose. He didn't care what any Necromancer said, just being close enough to touch another man's soul was plain wrong. As it was, his presence was encompassed with the feeling of Demachi's tainted and twisted essence radiating a stretch away from him – encompassed by the dark, deep hurt left by an abusive childhood, the helplessness and fear of what had once been a young child who had had no understanding of why what was happening to him was happening to him, and the rage and desperate need to reclaim control of an adult life that was still haunted by said terrible youth and the resulting guiltlessness of a man who had committed terrible atrocities without so much as batting an eye. Demachi's soul was in agony and it hurt Harry's soul to be so near it.

Desiring to free himself from the influence of Demachi's subconscious mind as quickly as he possibly could, Harry swiftly set about weaving his command into the man's vulnerable subconscious, making it a subconscious command for Demachi in its own right, as well as tapping into the fear Demachi had once felt as a child and associated it with an image of himself – effectively creating an undetectable, extremely powerful compulsion, one that wouldn't even be questioned in its origin once it was felt. Demachi would naturally attempt to resist it at first, but only a man with extreme mental discipline could win against his own subconscious and Demachi's mental discipline was far from perfect.

Once back in the present, having only missed but a few seconds, Harry pinned Demachi with a dark, sinister look – his face emotionless, yet his eyes filled with malice. It was a look that had sent Death Eaters running in terror in the other world and made all who fell under it question just how far he would go to get what he desired.

The subsequent flicker of fear across Demachi's face was impossible to miss. The man's unconscious loosing of his grip on Neville was even more noticeable.

Deciding to let the compulsion do the work for him, Harry stood still and silent, leaving the consequence of Demachi failing to comply with his demands to be made up by Demachi's imagination.

One second passed, then two … five … ten … twenty, then thirty. The hall remained silent, onlookers watching and hoping with baited breath. The enemy shift nervously, as the seconds stretched into a full minute.

"My patience wanes," Harry warned, feeling the tension in the hall mounting to a break point. If Demachi didn't cave in the next few seconds, there was a very good chance that Demachi's men would take action of their own accord, setting off the melee that would injure, if not kill dozens of innocent bystanders.

"They're alive," Demachi uttered so quietly that Harry barely heard him. The man looked momentarily stunned and somewhat panicked that he had betrayed himself, before he seemed to collapse in on himself and resign to the fear pulsing through him and the compulsion that his subconscious pushed upon more intensely by the second. "The Macmillans – they've been dosed with the Draught of Living Death," he said louder, quickly and with a sense of urgency. "They're –"

"Çfarë jeni duke bërë?" Serena Macmillan demanded of Demachi hotly, rounding on him with disbelief. "Vrasin këtë fëmijë dhe të bëhet me atë! Ja, unë do të bëjë atë për ju!"

While Harry was capable of speaking and understanding seven languages and was fully fluent in three of those languages, Albanian was not a language he was all that familiar with. He knew enough about the language to recognize it, as well as to know that vras translated to kill or murder, depending on the context, but that was about as far as his knowledge of the language went. As Serena turned upon him with her wand raised, as if ready to strike, he got the hint that she was talking about killing him. He tightened his grip ever so slightly on his wand and prepared for the assault, hoping that her attack wouldn't spur the others to attack as well.

"Nuk ka!" Demachi yelled, his eyes going wide with terror as Serena took several steps towards Harry and brought her wand down in a slicing motion, initiating the beginnings of what would no doubt be a deadly curse. "Larg prej tij! Ai do –"

"He is in your head," Serena hissed with righteous anger, her gaze affixed accusingly on Harry. "He is in your head controlling you. I heard their old man talking to their idiot minister. Getting inside peoples heads, that is what this Peverell is famous for. Why they fear him and whisper about him, while hoping he doesn't overhear! I will kill him and free you from his trickery. You'll see. This child is nothing compared to us." She raised her wand again, preparing to execute her curse.

As she did, Harry dropped his right foot back and raised his own wand into a highly aggressive, offensive dueling stance. His heart sped by a heartbeat, thrumming an adrenaline fueled tattoo in his chest. He could poignantly feel the magic in the air around him, ready and willing to be used, energized and filled with nervous tension. He immersed himself in it.

Serena brought down her wand for a second time, her eyes wild and filled with the insanity of an undisciplined mind mucking about with the Dark Arts, and in that moment, Harry lashed out so swiftly and suddenly that any attempt to shield against his attack would have been futile. His wrist cut up and curled, jolting his own deadly curse tight and fast and perfectly aim at Serena's heart. She flew upwards, her back arching and her limbs falling limp. Her wand clattered to the floor from her slackened fingers and rolled away from her towards the edge of the dance floor. The dull thud of her petite body hitting the marble floor a heart beat latter – her blonde hair fluttering through the air as she descended and feathering out beneath her lifeless form – echoed throughout the hall.

Once more, a deadly silence reigned.

As if suspended in animation, no one moved. Wands were drawn and poised for attack. Muscles were tensed and prepared to run. Screams were etched on the faces of the innocent, yet released not even a decibel of sound.

Harry let out a slow breath and delicately refocused his gaze upon Demachi.

The man flinched.

"Give the command," he commanded, leaving no room for argument.

"Surrender." It was choked and barely audible, but clearly heard. "Surrender," Demachi repeated, when not one of his men made to follow the order.

The dark robed men up on the balcony and the polyjuiced Macmillan party on the dance floor looked to their closest allies with uncertainty and askance.

"I am your leader!" Demachi exclaimed furiously. "Surrender!"

"A whole contingency of Aurors are waiting outside by now," Harry projected his voice to the group before him and to the men up on the balcony. "The sound blast I set off would have alerted the wards to something being amiss, calling every able body Ministry official to the Atrium. Attempting to fight your way out is futile. Make things easier on yourself and surrender now, before more people get hurt."

"'e's bluffing," a man with a French accent accused, his grip tightening on the Auror that he held captive.

"He's not," the Auror coughed out weakly. The poor woman looked like she'd been put through hell. Her eyes were bruise, her nose misshapen, and still drying blood glistened on her chin, whether from her broken nose or her visibly split lip Harry wasn't certain. "That blast would have even woken the wards around the Minister's office."

"Lies!" a man further up the balcony and closer to the doors shouted.

"Then step outside and see for yourself, you imbecile. I dare you. If my godson says there are fucking Aurors outside, then there are god damn Aurors outside. Just give it up already. If there weren't so many people to get caught within the crossfire, you'd all be on the floor and bleeding by now."

The irate, drunken huff of his godfather from somewhere within the crowd behind him very nearly made Harry smile. As things were, however, he was in the middle of conducting a hostage situation. Retaining his cultivate countenance, he called to his godfather. "Sirius."

"Yeah?"

"Shut up," Harry said plainly and left it at that, as he returned his attention to the task at hand. Looking back to Demachi, but focusing on Neville, he nodded over his shoulder towards where he knew Frank Longbottom to be. "Slowly," he instructed.

It took Neville a moment to work out Harry's message and gather the bravery to test the waters by pulling away from Demachi. When Demachi didn't entirely let go of him, but didn't pull him back either, he took another tentative step away from Demachi. Then another, and another.

Harry smirked internally, as he watched the faces of the enemy. Some looked ready to grab Neville themselves, as the blond boy passed them, yet they hesitated, casting very wary glances in Harry's direction. The shift of power had been slow and subtle. And as they watched Neville walk past them towards Harry and his father beyond, the reality of just how little control they maintained became incontestably clear. The second flight instinct kicked in, Harry raised his wand.

"Aurors have more mercy than I," he warned, flicking his gaze from one stolen face to the next, before scanning the balcony with the same deadly look. "Surrender." The order was calm and quiet, but it's effect was instantaneous.

Defeat rippled throughout the enemy.


	21. Aftermath

Harry's tolerance level was very close to snapping. Apparently, one of the simplest and most commonly used words by misbehaving toddlers across the globe was indecipherable to Auror John Dawlish. Not that Harry should have expected more from the Auror, considering the intellect of the man's counterpart in the other world. It seemed that no matter what time-stream he existed within, he and Auror Dawlish were destined to be at odds.

" _No_ ," Harry repeated vehemently for what had to be the dozenth time, his restrain coiling ever tighter in order to prevent him from taking up his wand and cursing the man.

"Hundreds of witnesses –" Auror Dawlish began yet again, his eyes unwavering from the point past Harry's right shoulder that he'd been staring at for a little over an hour now.

"Heard me say, and I quote: 'I'd ask who you're working for, but considering your target, I believe it would be redundant and a waste of time,'" Harry reiterated with a biting edge, his eyes flashing with the annoyance and fury that threatened to consume what little rational thought he had left. It was so like the bleeding British Ministry of Magic to throw accusations at the person who had saved their asses. "Where you get a confession of my being behind the attack out of _that_ is beyond me."

As Auror Dawlish opened his mouth to no doubt ask the same question he'd been asking for the last half hour, only phrased slightly differently, the door to the interview room burst opened.

Mr. Earnshaw stormed into the small, gray walled, poorly lit room in the fashion of an incensed man. His face was livid and his knuckles were white on the briefcase he carried. His maroon dress robes that he had worn to the ball had been replaced with custom tailored, pinstriped robes and a navy tie, making him look every bit of the clean-cut, high paid solicitor under his lord's retainer.

_A furious, clean-cut, high paid solicitor under his lord's retainer,_ Harry amended, feeling a wave of kinship with the man greater than he had over the last week.

"My lord, I advise strongly that you say nothing more," Mr. Earnshaw said, as he swept around the table and came to stand beside the chair Harry was sat upon. Turning to Auror Dawlish, he said burlesquely and with authority, "As of this moment, this interview is over. Either charge my client or let him go."

"Your client is suspected of instigating an act of terrorism," Auror Dawlish refuted, shoving his chair back from the table with a loud _screech!_ of metal on stone. Upon standing, he towered over Mr. Earnshaw by a good three inches. As if to further assert his physical dominance, he leaned ever so slightly over the table that served as a tangible barrier between him and Mr. Earnshaw, slamming his meaty hands down on the metal table top with a resound _thwack!_ "I'll be keeping him as long as I like – charges or _no_ charges!"

"My client," Mr. Earnshaw narrowed his eyes dangerously at Auror Dawlish, "is _the_ Baron of the Peak, a lord of the Wizengamot. You violate his ancient rights every second that you keep him here without _just_ cause for his detainment."

"A woman is dead! I have five Aurors in St. Mungo's! The Macmillans, Hit Wizard Harkiss, and Kathrin Bell are yet to be located! And, on top of all that, Neville Longbottom has been scared out of his wits and people are in a panic!" Auror Dawlish barked out harshly. "How's that for _just_ fucking cause?"

Mr. Earnshaw's lips curled back into a sneer and he drew from within his pocket a white hanker chief. As he civilly wiped the spray of spittle from his face, he regarded Auror Dawlish with a look of utter loathing. "While the night has been filled with tragedy," he maintain, with apparent difficulty, an even, restrained tone, "my client has done nothing that was not within his legal right. So unless you have evidence to the contrary – substantial enough to charge him with some form of crime – he will be leaving with me. Right now."

For a count of seven heartbeats, the two men glared at each. Auror Dawlish looking as if he'd love nothing more than to take up his wand and curse Mr. Earnshaw. While Mr. Earnshaw looked as if he might very well be considering doing the same to Auror Dawlish in return.

Just when Harry thought that Auror Dawlish might give in and finally consent to turning him loose, the door to the interview room opened once more. This time with a soft click of the door latch giving way. At the sight of Albus Dumbledore standing within the door frame with a grave expression etched into his aged face, Harry had to suppress a groan. _Great, just fucking great!_

"Forgive my intrusion," Dumbledore said, as his piercing blue eyes swept from Mr. Earnshaw to Auror Dawlish, taking in the heat scene between the two men, before ultimately settling on Harry. Ignoring the startled looks that he received from Mr. Earnshaw and Auror Dawlish and not bothering to close the door behind him, he strode into the room with all the grace and elegance of a much younger man. His spindle fingers of his right hand crept into the breast pocket of his violet and burgundy dress robes, as he approached the table.

"You're free to go, my lord," he proclaimed, while maintaining steady eye contact with Harry and producing a sealed scroll. Upon coming to rest a short distance from Harry, he offered him the scroll. "Minister Fudge and myself, in the capacity of Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, thank you for your courageous actions this evening and hope that you will accept this token of gratitude on behalf of all the lives you saved tonight with your quick thinking and … shall we say … _unique_ talents."

Harry couldn't have kept the dumbfounded expression off his face, if he had tried. He reached past Mr. Earnshaw, more out of reacting to what was expected of him than out of conscious action, and accepted to proffered scroll.

Before Harry could even so much utter a response or Auror Dawlish could exclaim in protest, Dumbledore bowed his head respectfully to Harry and inclined his head in acknowledgement and farewell to Mr. Earnshaw and Auror Dawlish. He turned on his heel and strode out the room, as if he hadn't intruded at all. Only the open door he left behind him and the sealed scroll in Harry's hand gave evidence to his brief visit.

"Well," Harry said after taking a moment to stop gaping after the Chief Warlock. He tucked the still unbroken scroll into the breast pocket of his own dress robes, intending to open it later when he had a bit more privacy. He swiftly stood and turned to Auror Dawlish. "I would say it's been a pleasure, Auror Dawlish," he gave the man one last contemptuous look, "but that would be a lie."

Auror Dawlish bared his teeth at Harry, clearly in agreement with him.

"Mr. Earnshaw," Harry said, looking to the man and nodding to the open door.

Mr. Earnshaw stepped aside to allow Harry past, upon which he followed his client out of the confinement of the interview room and out into the open, brightly lit, cubicle filled office area of Auror Headquarters. He kept a pace behind his client, as the young man navigated his way past the busy cubicles and the various Aurors hurrying about.

Harry could feel eyes boring into the back of his skull with every occupied cubicle and startled Auror that he passed. At this point, however, he was indifferent to who thought what. He'd been answering questions for hours. First in the Atrium with the other ball attendees, as the Aurors made arrests and took witness statements. After which, he'd been compelled to come upstairs for further questioning and had been detained by Auror Dawlish ever since. He was well and truly tired and had simply had enough for the night. With the way the Auror in his path scurried out his way, he imagined that his itchy wand hand showed plainly on his face.

Upon passing his father's cubicle and finding it empty, Harry glowered at the empty desk chair. He had expected that his father wouldn't have been far from the interview room, but apparently he had been wrong.

"This way, my lord," Mr. Earnshaw prompted softly and directed Harry to the oak, double doors that marked the entrance to Auror Headquarters.

Casting one last glance around for his father, yet not seeing the man anywhere in sight, Harry pushed past a group of red robed Aurors huddled around the beverage station, who were all vying for the last cup of coffee, and made his way to the double doors that would grant him his freedom at last.

"Oh, thank God!"

The moment that Harry set foot in the narrow, softly lit hall beyond Auror Headquarters, he was engulfed by the familiar scent his mother's perfume, as she all but squeezed the life out of him, her arms wrapped so tightly around him, as if she never planned on letting go, effectively choking off his air and crushing his arms to the sides of his body.

"M-mum," he wheezed.

"Are you all right?" Lily asked urgently, as she released him, looking him up and down with the ever inspecting eyes of a concerned mother.

"I'm fine." Harry did his best to put forward a reassuring smile. "Where's dad?" he asked, irritated and somewhat concerned at not to see his father waiting with his mother. Surely, his son being detained under suspicion of terrorism was justification enough for the man to tell Scrimgeour where to shove it for the night.

"Your father's still detained, my lord," Mr. Earnshaw said grimly.

Harry jerked away from his mother's fussing and wheeled around on the wiry framed man, raising a querying eyebrow that demanded answers. "Still detained?"

"You, your family, and Lord Black were all brought up for further questioning." Mr. Earnshaw treated Harry to a meaningful look. "Director Bones is determined to connect your trip to the continent at the beginning of the month to the attack."

"Mr. Earnshaw only just got Bethany and me release ten minutes ago," Lily said, as she turned Harry back to her and began to look him over once more for any signs of distress or injury. Her hands smoothed over the wrinkles in his robes and fretted at the few skewed locks of inky hair upon his head. "I sent her home with Sirius and Mayra," she supplied at seeing Harry's eyes wander up the hall, clearly searching for his sister. "She's most upset over the whole affair. As is to be expected. Though it doesn't help that she spent that last week with that Romilda girl at the Frobishers' house. I told James that it was a bad idea to allow her to spend so much time with that girl, but he insisted. Ugh! _That_ man! One minutes he's yelling at her and the next …"

"If you'll excuse me, my lord, I need to go see what I can do to get your father released." Not waiting for Harry's dismissal, Mr. Earnshaw bow to the youth and nodded politely to Lily, who seemed to realize that she'd started to ramble. Upon the man reopening the oak doors to Auror Headquarters a cacophony of muddled arguments cutting across one another flooded the hall, before being silenced once more by the doors swing shut behind the man.

"Are _you_ all right?" Harry asked his mother, giving her a belated once over. She didn't appear too worse for wear. Her dress robes were rumpled just noticeably and the first signs of fatigue plagued the soft skin beneath her eyes. Otherwise, she appeared to have survived the attack and being detained by the DMLE relatively intact.

"Nothing that a good night's sleep won't fix." Lily gave a dismissive wave of her gloved right hand.

"If you'd like to go home, I'll stay and –" Harry started to offer.

"No," Lily said firmly, cutting him off. "I need to stay. But I'm sure your father would understand, if you –"

Harry shook his head. "I've a responsibility to Dad, and not just as his son. I'm staying as well."

Lily stared at Harry for a long moment, her emotions fighting for dominance within her and playing out in brief flashes within eyes. For a second, Harry was certain that he had seen fear wrapped in hesitation, before it was replaced by the kindness of a mother gazing upon her son and rounded out with pride.

Harry didn't move so much as a muscle, as his mother stepped towards him, leaned up and kissed him lightly on the cheek, stepped back, and curtsy to him ceremoniously with all the respect of a pupil curtsying to her lord. If he didn't know that she was doing so to show her acceptance of who he was to her and his father in more than him merely being their son, Harry would have dissuaded her from treating him so. As it was, he offered her his right hand and a genuine smile, forcing himself to momentarily let go of the indignant anger that burned within him at this worlds Ministry being as infective, corrupt, and filled with idiotic notions as it had been in the other world.

"Dad might be a while," he said, fighting the urge to scream and light the whole damn place ablaze. If there was one thing to be said for the war in the other world, it had leveled the lands and left a clean slate for a new, hopefully better and less corrupt civilization to rise.

"So he might," Lily agreed, accepting her son's proffered hand.

Mother and son walked the short distance up the hall to an ornately carved bench, where they settled themselves as comfortably as they could for what both suspected would be a long wait.

Harry and Sirius had had the ancient rights that came with their lordships to protect them and Lily and Bethany had had ignorance on their side when it came to Harry, James, and Sirius's affairs as of late. James had neither a lordship nor ignorance and was an employee of the very body detaining him.

–

Hours passed and various Ministry officials came and went, most casting glances Harry and Lily's direction, yet saying nothing to them. Mr. Earnshaw dropped by several times to inform Harry and his mother about the status of James's release, before returning to Auror Headquarters or rushing off to file a petition with the DMLE courts on James's behalf.

As late night drew into early morning, Harry felt the previous days events taking their toll and he once more cursed being a teenager in the middle of a growth spurt. In the other world, there had been times where he'd gone for days without a wink of sleep to little ill effect. Tapping into the embers of frustration and ire that smolder within him and refused to die, he forced himself to remain awake and slammed consciousness home with a firm dose of will power.

Lily eventually nodded off around five, losing her own battle against sleep – her petite form curled into her son's side and wrapped in the coal outer robe of Harry's dress robes, her velvet red hair taken down from its up-do and flowing across her son's shoulder.

As the eight o'clock hour descended upon Harry and his mother, Mr. Earnshaw returned, looking somber and fairly exhausted.

The man gave Lily, who remained fast asleep at his approach, a sympathetic and somewhat envious look, before focusing upon Harry.

"Do you want the good news or the bad news first, my lord?"

"However you'd prefer to tell it," Harry said with indifference, as he forced his mind to a fully alert state from the meditative state that he'd allowed himself to slip into.

"Well," Mr. Earnshaw yawned, "excuse me, my lord – the good news is that I have secured your father's release, pending that no evidence comes to light giving suggestion to you being behind the attack last night. The bad news is that the DMLE courts have granted the Aurors until noon today to come up with said evidence, before having to turn your father lose, and until the investigation into the attack has been resolved, your father has been suspended from the force."

Harry hummed, the embers of his fury that had been dulled by the long wait and a poignant lack of sleep sparking back to life.

"Thank you, Mr. Earnshaw, for you diligence on this matter," he said evenly, doing his best to remain calm and polite, yet unwilling to use Occlumency to alter his state of mind. He wanted to feel the emotion searing him inside. It was that same sort of fire that had drove him head long into the war in the other world and had been apart of what kept him going – giving him unwavering purpose even in the lowest of lows. While some emotions were trivial, what he currently felt was something to be used, not cast aside.

"Go home and get some rest," he instructed Mr. Earnshaw. "Take what remains of the day to be with your family, if you will."

"Thank you, my lord. I will." Mr. Earnshaw bowed gratefully to Harry.

"Tomorrow," Harry spoke sharply and with purpose, giving Mr. Earnshaw pause in taking his leave, "I expect you to draft a suit against the DMLE and Director Bones in particular."

"On what grounds … my lord?" Mr. Earnshaw asked, his eagerness at his dismissal sliding off of his face and being replaced with cautious compliance.

"Disregarding the law in favor of a personal vendetta, acting without sufficient evidences, officer misconduct; take your pick." Harry gave his solicitor a dark look that reflected the fire burning him. "The amount of the suit, I leave up to you as well."

"Very well, my lord," Mr. Earnshaw assented, before adding with a warning note, "Though, with you only having been declared last night, I'd advise that –"

"I don't care for public opinion, Mr. Earnshaw," Harry cut the man off and pinned him with a look that told just how little he cared about what the masses thought of him. Public opinion was as finicky as the wind on a hot summer's day, as far as he was concerned. There was no use sucking up to the masses, when they could turn on a person at the drop of a hat. Not that he didn't realize that the public had their uses and could be played on the short term. Long term cultivation of the publics' good graces, however, would forever remain a frivolous endeavor – a lesson that he had well learned and taken to heart.

"I am not a man to be trifled with," Harry stated plainly, boring his gaze into Mr. Earnshaw with naked intent. "The sooner that that is understood, the better off things will be for everyone. Draft the suit and bring me a copy first thing Monday morning. Nine o'clock."

"As you wish, my lord." Mr. Earnshaw bowed his farewell.

As the weary solicitor rounded the corner at the far end of the hall, his foot steps echoing up the nearly deserted hallway back towards Harry, Harry felt his mother stir beside him.

"Your father told me that you were by far more ready to take on the role of Lord Peverell than he ever would be," she said sleepily, her voice barely above a whisper. She pulled back from her son to gaze up at him, her eyes lidded and struggling to stay open. "I hadn't the foggiest what he meant," she admitted in a murmur and reached out a delicate hand to rest it lightly on his cheek. "Yet … you sit here before me proving his words the truth. I don't understand."

Harry said nothing to his mother's admittance, knowing that if he opened his mouth, he'd wind up owning up to more than just his father's truth. Now was not the time or place for said conversation, if there would ever be a time or place for said conversation at all. So instead, he maintained his promised lie with silence, shifting uncomfortably under his mother's scrutiny. Her gaze was penetrating, searching, questioning. It raised goose pimples on the back of his neck. Though his mother was in no way using Legilimency on him, he felt as if she was looking deep within him – her gaze examining his very soul, glimpsing his base make up. It was unsettling and urged ever insistently for the secrets that he kept locked away to spill from his lips.

"You killed a woman," Lily said softly after a fashion, sounding almost confused by her words. She frowned. "You killed a woman," she repeated. "You killed her and didn't even flinch. You'd do it again," she said knowingly, her gaze unwavering from her son.

"A thousand times over," Harry confirmed with honesty. "If it had been you, Bethany, or Dad in Neville's place …" he trailed off, knowing without a shred of doubt that if such had been the case, every innocent life in that ballroom would have been meaningless to him and things would have turned out very differently. He made to turn away from his mother to hide that fact from her. A ruthless killer wasn't how he wanted her to think of him. Her hand on his cheek sliding to his chin stopped him.

"You are –" Seeming to think better of whatever it was that she had begun to say, Lily's features transformed from expressing the perplexity that she felt into a gentle smile. "Know that I love you, my son. I don't understand you or some of the things you do, but I love you and that will have to suffice, until you're ready to let me understand."

Harry opened his mouth to respond, not entirely sure what to say. He was saved from having to come up with an articulate response, as his mother snuggled back into his side and sighed contentedly. Sensing that the chasm that had been slowly developing between him and his mother had just repaired itself the smallest amount, he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her forehead. "I love you too, Mum."

"I know, sweetie." Lily breathed out softly, sleep taking hold of her once more.

–

Noon couldn't come soon enough. Upon his mother waking around eleven, Harry had gotten up and taken to pacing the hall in order to stave off sleep and restlessness. So fixed was his mind on his father's impending release that he didn't notice his godfather's arrival, until Sirius threw a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ at him from where the man had sat down next Lily. Only Harry's quick reflexes saved him from taking the hit square in the face.

" _Finally_ sober, I see." Harry glared at his godfather, half tempted to act on the impetuous whim to chuck the paper back at the man.

"At least read the headlines before giving me lip," Sirius said seriously. Harry noted, upon actually taking in his godfather's state that the man appeared as tired as he felt.

Letting out an exhausted, resigned expulsion of air, Harry unfolded the _Prophet_.

**Attack on the Boy-Who-Lived!**

**Baron of the Peak Declared!  
Lord Harold James Peverell **

**Terrorist Cell Captured!**

The headlines were decidedly tame compared to the media frenzy Harry had expected after last night's fiasco.

"Your doing?" Harry asked, looking up from the paper to his godfather.

"Between myself and Fudge, the consequences of Mr. Cuffe allowing his reporters off leash were inexplicably clear." Sirius smirked. "I believe that this morning in Cuffe's office was the first time I've ever agreed with Fudge on anything."

Lily gave Sirius an exasperated look. "Honestly, Sirius, he has a lot of good ideas. If you and your lot would just work with him –"

"My lot?" Sirius rounded on Lily, looking offended. " _My lot?"_

"You know what I mean," Lily said, giving Sirius a withering look.

Before a full out argument could explode between the two, which was exactly where the two were headed as far as Harry could tell, the doors to Auror Headquarters burst open with such force that they slammed back against the walls on either side of the hall.

"You know what, Bones – I quit!"

The sight of his father, still dressed in his Auror formal robes, red faced, hair disheveled, and yelling at the top of his lungs brought a wide grin to Harry's face.

"Oh no you don't, Potter!" Rufus Scrimgeour appeared in the open doorway, looking as lion like with his wild main of hair as he always did. His stride was powerful and purposeful, as he took several steps into the hall in pursuit of James, who had taken to storming up the hall towards his wife, son, and honorary brother. "You'll be back here Monday morning ready for your shift! Do you hear me? - Do you hear me?" he repeated, when James didn't respond but kept marching up the hall.

"Let's go," James said, his infuriated gaze connecting with Harry, Lily, and Sirius's in turn.

It was all the prompting that the three needed to stir to action and make haste for the lifts.

"God damn it, Potter!" Scrimgeour's exclamation echoed up the hall after them.


	22. Riddle

The upper floor of his family's cottage was still and wholly silent.

Being as quiet as he possibly could, Harry pushed back his covers and sat up. His heart thudded loudly in his chest, fear mixed with anticipation fueling its tattoo. He had slept restlessly, plagued by images of a war he had yet to live and hoped that he'd never have to live. He had lost nearly everyone that he had ever loved once before. He could still remember the keen sense of loss that had afflicted him as a result – gut emptying, soul shattering, a numbness that rarely, if ever, left the heart. He wouldn't survive living through such personal tragedy again, or so he didn't believe his strength would hold out and see him through the war for a second time should all he be left with to fight for once again be vengeance and the slim possibility of peace.

_Things will be different this time,_ Harry vowed to himself, scrubbing a stressed hand through his hair. His eyes stared into the darkness of his room, seeing the phantoms of the nightmare that had woken him. He rejected the ghostly forms of his family – bloody and lifeless, dark flames licking their flesh and reflecting in their glassy eyes – from his mind with ferocity. _No._ _Even if my knowledge doesn't quite match up, I still know enough to stay ahead of the Dark Regime and prepare for Voldemort's rise._

Harry's thoughts were treacherous, however, countering his assurances with the cold hard facts.

Bertha Jorkins had gone missing, just as she had in the other world, while Peter Pettigrew was supposedly dead, as he had been in the other world, but had died under different circumstance and could possibly be _dead._

Quirinus Quirrell had never taught Defense Against the Dark Arts during 1991-1992 school year and there had never been a problem with any of the unicorns being injured in the Forbidden Forest that year either. To Harry's knowledge, the Philosopher's Stone had never been housed within Hogwarts, though someone had attempted and failed to steal the Philosopher's Stone from Gringotts during the 1991 summer.

Voldemort's horcruxes remained a formidable task. Three were completely unaccounted for, another might or might not exist as of yet, two he was certain of, but couldn't obtain just yet, and another would take strategy and subtly on his part to destroy.

Nullifying the Kill Wards was going to be a greater difficulty than he'd anticipated, and without professional help, he might as well count his losses on that front.

The most concerning fact of all, at the current moment, however, was the fact that Voldemort appeared to have rallied at least a fraction of his continental allies and said foreign allies had attempted to kidnap Neville on his orders without the British Isle having been previously secured under their Dark Lord's rule. The fact that Voldemort had tried to get to Neville now, instead of waiting for the final task of the Triwizard Tournament, was only slightly less concerning.

"Fuck." The curse was whispered and filled with the anxiety that had plagued Harry since the night before, after he had been released from Auror custody and had had a few hours to think things over, while waiting for news of his father's release. If he hadn't had a responsibility to his father and hadn't been so pissed off, he would have confirmed his suspicions then. If he hadn't been so exhaust by the time he and his parents had arrived home and his mother hadn't insist that he rest, he wouldn't have even bothered with sleep.

Flicking his wand into his hand from its holster on his wrist, Harry cut it in a counterclockwise circle through the air, before slashing the circle through with a straight, downward cut that flowed into a sharp jab and a right handed twist, effectively setting a sound suppression ward around his room. At replacing his wand in its holster, he swung his legs over the side of his bed and lowered his bare feet to the cool, wooden floorboards that permitted his room. A part of him was confident in what he'd find tonight, yet another wholly dreaded it.

Not bothering with lighting his wand or the oil lamp on his beside table, Harry got up from his bed and crossed his room over to his wardrobe, doing his best to ignore the uncomfortable knot twisting his stomach. He dressed swiftly in a pair of sturdy, dark colored of trousers, the Hebridean Black boots his mother had indulged him with, and a loose fitting, dark colored tunic. He pulled on his bomber jacket, before running his hand through his hair a few times to ensure that it was uniformly messy. Upon taking up his wand once more, he canceled the sound suppression ward and made for his bedroom door.

Harry tapped his wand to the cold metal door handle, as he turned handle slowly.. The door swung open without even a _click_ of the latch or a _whine_ of the hinges. He paused with one foot in his room and the other out in the hall, listening for any signs of life from Bethany's room. Hearing only the steady rhythm of his heart and nothing that remotely foretold of his sister's waking, he stepped all the way out into the hall and shut his door behind him, in doing so committing to the mission he'd set himself nearly 24 hours ago.

With cautious steps, Harry crept up the hall towards his parents' room, expertly avoiding the squeaky floorboards outside of the bathroom and around the top of the stairs. Upon reaching his mother and father's bedroom door, he tapped the door handle with his wand, again casting a silent silencing charm.

The soft sounds of sleep greeted Harry's ears, as he stepped out of the hall and into his parents' bedroom.

Though his mother and father's room was the master bedroom, it wasn't much bigger than Harry's own room or even Bethany's room. His mother preferred a quaint home, as she had said time and time again, after visiting the vast manors and castles of the Blacks and Longbottoms, and even after having visited the Weasleys' magically expanded, teetering home in Ottery St. Catchpole. Despite not being able to discern the decor that he knew to be centuries old and country-esque in origin, the cozy, homey atmosphere that his mother so loved engulfed Harry profoundly, as he set foot in the place his mother and father laid their heads at night.

Harry wasted no time in crossing the short distance between the door and his parents wicker framed bed, pausing and wincing briefly when he unknowingly treaded upon a weak floorboard. In the dark that filled the room, he could just make out that his father had his arms wrapped around his mother and that both were snuggled close to one another, lying on their sides.

Half tempted to turn back and leave his father to his rest, Harry recounted his and his father's succinct conversation about the last time he had sneaked off in the middle of the night. He could go and be back before his father ever knew that he'd left, he was sure. Nonetheless, the part of him that respected his father, loved his father, and would rather not disappoint his father refused to allow him to just go.

With a resigned sigh, Harry reached down to give his father's shoulder a light shake.

James stiffened instantly under his son's hand, his arms tensing around his wife, his back muscles coiling to alert.

"It's just me," Harry soothed softly.

"Harry?" James opened his eyes and squinted over his shoulder to his son, surprise and concern showing on his shadowed face. As gently as he possibly could, he disentangled himself from Lily and turned to face Harry, reflexively reaching out for his glasses and his wand on his beside table. "Are you all right? Is Bethany –"

"I'm fine. Bethany is fine. Nothing is on fire. And no one is at the floo," Harry said in a rushed whisper.

James frowned at his son and fumbled to put on his glasses. He made to light the tip of his wand, but Harry deftly caught his wrist, freezing the spell half formed.

"I'm going out," Harry said by way of explanation for waking the man. "I'll be back before first light."

"Will Sirius be going with you?" James asked, his voice still filled with sleep, yet distinctly displeased. He pulled his wrist free from Harry's grip, as Harry shook his in the negative response. He huffed, resignation making it's way onto his face. "All right, give me a minute."

"I'm perfectly capable of handling this on my own." Yet Harry backed a few steps away from the bed, as his father made to get up. "You don't need –"

"Maybe, maybe not." James slid out of bed with slow, careful movement, as to not wake Lily. Standing clad in only his underpants, he towered over his fourteen year old son with authority, gazing down at him with his jaw set and his eyes hard behind his glasses. "I'd feel better, if someone went with you. And, since you aren't taking Sirius to go do whatever it is you think you need to do at," he cast a quick tempus spell, "01:29 in the morning, I suppose that someone better be me. Besides, you and I need to have a talk."

Harry quirked an eyebrow. "If you're going to reprimand me for killing that woman, you best save your breath. I know killing isn't you–"

"I know why you killed her," James cut Harry off brusquely and stepped around his son to get to his wardrobe. "I understand that you needed to maintain control of the situation. I'm – I was an _Auror_ , Harry."

Catching the anger in his father's voice, as the man had declared his recent occupation, Harry elected to hold his silence. His father was in a mood.

Upon James dressing in attire that was similar in theme to Harry's, he and Harry receded from the room without a word to one another. Harry led the way up the hall to the stairs, his steps careful to avoid the weaker floorboards.

It wasn't until father and son had stepped outside into the night's chilled air that Harry turned to his father, whose mood had not lightened one bit.

"Listen," Harry said seriously, keeping his voice low. His grip was tight on his father's arm, having pulled the man to a stop halfway to the front gate.

The sky was cloudy overhead. The fading, silver sliver of the crescent moon, as it waned into a new cycle, barely cut through the dense haze to cast a dark hue upon the earth below.

Harry met his father's cold gaze, looking up at the man with features that were barely perceptible through the darkness, yet grave and decidedly wary in essence. "No matter what, you do as I tell you tonight. I don't care what you see or hear, you don't as much as twitch unless I give you explicit permission to do so."

"Where are we going?"

"Riddle Manor, Little Hangleton." Harry released his father and made for the front gate, his tread connecting with each stepping stone as if it were daylight and the sun was high overhead. "I need to confirm Riddle is home … as well as get a rough estimate of how many followers he's brought back with him."

At reaching the gate a fraction of a breath later, Harry turned back to his father. The man hadn't moved. "What?" he demanded. His father's closed off features told him very little of the nature of his father's thoughts, but made it quite clear that the man took issue with him.

"This brazen, fuck all attitude of yours is exactly what I wanted to talk to you about, Harry," James said coolly, his stance steadfast and his eyes narrowed at his son. "If I understand correctly, you just announced that we're about to scout Voldemort's hideout - _you planned on doing so on you own –_ as if this just another Saturday night to you."

Harry shifted uneasily. In a way, it was, but he didn't think his father wanted to hear as much.

"I don't care how good you think you are, Harry," James bit out harshly, "you're not untouchable!"

"I know." Harry regarded the man as calmly as he could manage, refusing to give into the teenage impulse to snap back at the man with defiance. _I should have know this was coming_.He sighed mentally. While they weren't exactly pressed for time, he wished his father hadn't picked now to express his love and concern.

"Do you?" James challenged Harry, his voice raising in volume and anger. He took a powerful stride towards his son. "You certainly looked like you thought nothing could touch you last night. You had over a dozen enemy wands on you and you acted as if the Killing Curse would just brush off you. It won't, son." He closed the gap between him and Harry and roughly grabbed a fist full of Harry's bomber jacket, pulling his son towards him with a forcible jerk. "You will die, Harry. You're as mortal as I am, as your mother, your sister, your fucking godfather." A disdain filled sneer twisted his lips, his grip on his son flexing with his anger. "You tell me to obey your every command, act as if I need protecting, yet you strut towards the danger that awaits you tonight as if you own the night and it would never dream of turning on you."

"I'm scared shitless." Harry held his father's almost cruel gaze with open honesty, allowing the fear that resided deep within him to show plainly on his face and in his eyes. "Is that what you want to hear? I walked out on to that dance floor with my heart beating steady in my chest, yet a fraction of an inch from jumping right out of my throat. Trust me. There wasn't a second that I wasn't aware of every wand on me. Or perhaps you want me to confide to you how, when I faced the Kill Wards with Sirius a week ago, I knew that the possibility of my death was very real, yet I choose to act regardless? I consciously put my life below all the death and destruction that I knew would come, if I didn't do what had to be done – made the call to wager my mortality for a greater cause."

With his father so close to him, Harry could feel his father's body rigid against his own, his father's breath hot on his flesh, could taste the man's familiar scent of spice and oak on the air that they shared, as he drew a shuddered breath, and feel his father's magic pulsating against his own – wild, angry, and desperate. "Maybe I flaunt death too carelessly at times, I'll give you that, Dad," he admitted in a barely audible whisper. "But I can't face the things I face – do the things I do – if I allow fear to rule me. I'd be ripped apart and people would die. I'm so very, sincerely sorry that I scared you. I'd promise that I won't do it again, but we both know that I can't."

James shoved away from Harry, releasing his son as he did so, and turned towards the garden fence. His hands went to his face, rubbing his upturned brow and beneath his glasses, as he took several steps into the grass. His shoulders were tense and the noise of frustration that escaped him was unmistakable. He wanted to scream, yell, and vent all that he held inside him, Harry was sure.

"If you're not up to this, I will go and wake Sirius," Harry said compassionately. "I give you my promise."

"No." James shook his head, the word was careful, yet steady. "I'm fine."

"What I told you before still stands." Harry pinned his father with a warning look, as the man turned to face him once more. "Can you handle that?"

"I won't stand aside and watch you be killed," James refuted, turning back to his son, his eyes severe.

"No one is going to be killing anyone." Harry stated firmly. _You included_ , he added mentally. He didn't know how his father would react, if they saw Pettigrew tonight. He knew his own reaction would be visceral, as it would be at the sight of the Dark Regime assembled or even the Dark Lord on his own. "I don't plan on getting that close."

"All right," James said and nodded.

Harry held out his hand. "I'll apparate us about a mile out initially."

Upon his father taking his hand and ensuring that they were both within the Apparation Field just inside of the front gate, Harry turned on the spot, focusing on their destination with the entirety of his being.

Rain drops splattered Harry and James's cheeks and wet their clothing and hair. The country lane before them was paved and bordered by high, tangled hedgerows. In the darkness, a sign post could only just be made out. One of it's arms read: GREAT HANGLETON, 5 MILES, and pointed behind Harry and James. The other arm, pointing in the direction Harry and James were facing, read: LITTLE HANGLETON, 1 MILE.

Though Harry had never physically set foot on this particular patch of earth, the scene was forebodingly familiar to him. He inhaled a long, slow breath. The scent of bramble bushes, summer rain, and a detectable note of highly concentrated, potent magic filled his nostrils. He exhaled with a purposeful stride forward. With every subsequent step he took, he focused his mind solely on his mission, detaching himself from his fear, his anger, his hate, and the confrontation with his father just moments before.

Harry boots splashed against the wet pavement in tandem with his father's unwavering gait beside him – the man a silent presence, comforting and somewhat grounding.

They walked for several minutes, the patter of the rain the only sound of the night.

As the lane began to crest the valley of Little Hangleton, Harry grew ever more acutely aware of the way the cold drops of precipitation slithered down the back of his neck and crept along his spine, like icy fingers tracing patterns on his flesh. The eerie feeling was made all the more formidable and more so tangible by the heady magic tainting the air, growing with strength with his every step. He was certain that he had felt a form of Muggle repelling ward ten yards back.

Two steps more, the lane cut in a steep, downward slope and Harry's approach faltered as abruptly as if he'd walked straight into a brick wall. He sucked in a sharp, jagged breath, as the blood drained from his cheeks and a hollow feeling entered his stomach. The mixture of shock and horror combined with the onslaught of countless flashbacks to similar scenes from his life in the other world sliced through his carefully composed detachment, flooding him with a sense of dread.

"What's happened here?" James asked in a horrified whisper, having come to a rigid halt only a half step behind Harry.

At first glance, nothing appeared overtly wrong. Nestled at the bottom of the valley, the village of Little Hangleton stood erect, it's church towering over its shops and residences. It was quiet, quaint. It could almost be mistaken for a sleeping country village that would wake with the morning light, its inhabitants rising early to take on the day – parents heading off to work, as their children dashed off to wreak havoc with their friends, the village baker setting out fresh baked croissants and cinnamon buns in preparation for the morning rush, neighbors greeting one another over fences and across the street, as they brought in the day's paper, and the old maid putting out scraps from the previous night's dinner for the stray dog everyone knew, but no one claimed.

And yet, the signs of something terrible having occurred were rampant. Driveways where cars should surely be parked were empty. Lawns were noticeably unkempt. There was a faint glint of shattered glass sprinkled up the main drag. A nozzle laid feet from the gas pump it belonged to, where it had no doubt come to rest after having pulled free from a speeding away vehicle headed towards Great Hangleton. The few flickering street lamps that remained alight throughout the village were alone in giving suggestion to human habitation, and yet they themselves were just an illusion, a nasty lie.

Harry shut his eyes, taking hold of the dread and fear attempting to dominate him and shoved it back into the recesses of his mind. He had a mission to fulfill. At obtaining objective clarity, he opened his senses fully and reached out to the magic chocking his every breath. It was slimy, thick, nausea inducing. Where it physically touched him, it was like an oily film coating his skin. Powerful Dark Magic had been used, in excess and without an iota of hesitation. There was no mistaking it.

_Two weeks ago, give or take a day or two, considering the amount of dissipation,_ Harry calculated, unable to get an exact feel for what curses had been cast or possible rite had been invoked. As he reopened his eyes, his gaze locked on the old manor that claimed the hillside opposite his and his father's position. Unlike Little Hangleton below, it was teeming with life.

"There's been no reports of dark activity lately?" Harry asked his father, his gaze unwavering from the lit up manor house. Every so often a shadow would pass in front of one of the many windows. Due to the distance, he couldn't be sure, but he was almost certain that he'd seen a group enter the manor, in a moment where the front door had swung open.

"None," James replied stoically.

"We best not get any closer then," Harry said, leery of the wards that had been laid to shield Riddle Manor and Little Hangleton from the Ministry of Magic.

As Harry knelt down and proceed to lay himself flat on his stomach without regard for the cold, hard, soaked thoroughly pavement or the rain continuing to pound down on his back, James gave his son a peculiar look, grimaced, and followed suit.

Harry shuffled closer to the man, his left shoulder making contact with his father's right and their sides becoming flush with one another. Snapping his wand into his right hand, he reached out in front of him and his father and, without preamble, began to knit together a one-way obscuring ward, a one-way sound suppression ward, and one of the strongest and most universal shielding wards that he knew of, weaving the magic with well practiced, tight control, as to avoid the possibility of detection the best he could. He carefully laid the magic over him and his father like a blanket and, for a good measure, he warped them both over the head with a Disillusionment Charm.

"Owe." James rubbed his scalp where Harry had struck him, shivering at the chill of the Disillusionment Charm's magic washing him.

"I didn't hit you that hard." Harry cut his wand through the air before him and his father with far less elegant wand movements this time, conjuring two sets of gold Omnioculars. He holstered his wand and picked up both sets, offering one of the sets to his father. "I'm not Moody, after all."

"These are patented material." James took the Omnioculars begrudgingly, his grimace even more pronounced.

"Is that so?" Harry hummed with disinterest, as he adjusted his set of Omnioculars for night lighting and long distance. "Remember," he said gravely, "no matter what you see, you don't move a muscle unless I say so."

James grunted what might have been assent and adjusted his Omnioculars for night lighting and long distance as well.

Harry sighed, bring his own Omnioculars up to his eyes.

There was a brief moment where Harry's vision was nothing but darkness. Then, after panning his Omnioculars up and to the left, he was abruptly staring at a face that he'd never forget. The bloodshot, ice blue eyes ringed in wrinkled, bruised colored flesh, the grizzled eyebrows and just as gray locks braided back ritually, the sharp jaw and notable chin, the yellowed teeth that were a result of too much tobacco and a life time of sipping wine mixed with virgins' blood were features that had once struck so much fear in his being that he'd begged for the grace of death. Nikita Kalinouski was one of Voldemort's most prized continental allies, a descendant of the Belarus House of Kalinouski, a Necromancer, a Mind Mage, and an all around sadistic fuck. Harry hadn't known what torture was, until Kalinouski had had him under his wand.

With gritted teeth, Harry zoomed out a minuscule amount and followed Kalinouski's gaze across the polished wood surface of the table the man was seated at. Locking onto another familiar face, he bit his tongue in an effort to hold back a curse. Youthful, tantalizingly pale skin, ringlets of blonde hair, eyes black as night, and a body very, very few men would ever consider saying no to. Elina Lahti had been the best fuck of his life, as well as his biggest mistake. The back of his neck grew hot, as his groin stirred at the memory of what _those_ ruby red lips had done to him and the way _those_ slender, alabaster fingers had gripped him and teased his heated flesh. Even more potent was the memory of the mind blowing, heart stuttering orgasm that had rocked through his body, as she had mercilessly ridden him right off the cliff of ecstasy and into the void beyond. Harry swallowed hard, his desire for her only tamed by the sting of betrayal and the knowledge of the countless lives that had been lost due to her treachery. Her death had been bloody, personal, and entirely without mercy.

Panning to Elina's right, Harry was greeted with a face that he knew only from a photograph, a photograph Elina had shown him no less. Olavi Lahti had died by the Dark Lord's hand, or so Elina had claimed. Seeing as she'd been attempting to gain his sympathies at the time, he had no way of knowing whether that had been the man's fate or not, as he had killed the man's daughter before he had gotten around to verifying the lies she had fed him. All that he could ascertain about the blond haired, middle-aged, somewhat grungy looking man was that he had to be of some value for him and his daughter to be sitting at the same table as Kalinouski.

Harry zoomed out even further, so that he might get a better understanding of what was happening. With the window he'd been looking through fully in frame of his Omnioculars, he could not hold back the curse that slipped past his lips.

"Shit!"

Voldemort was hosting a gathering of some sort. That much was clear. While Kalinouski and the two Lahti's were at the end of the table closest to the window, nine other were seated further up the table with Lucius Malfoy strutting into the dilapidated room to no doubt join the already assembled party.

"Malfoy, Burke, Nott …" Harry heard his father list off beside him.

Nicolau Dantès, a dark haired, dark skinned aristocrat from Galicia who had a talent with poisons and a fetish for daggers, Eldrich Jaeger, a huskily built man who was an expert tracker and wardsmith, and Thyia Zabat, an attractive witch who had enough connections throughout Europe to make almost any problem a client might bring to her disappear, were notable in addition to Lucius Malfoy, Lachlan Burke, and Icarus Nott.

Of the four who Harry didn't know, or at least didn't recognize by face, all appeared outwardly to be as formidable as those they were surrounded by. Two of the men shared the same narrow nose, gray eyes, and square jaw, while one's hair was considerably darker than the other and the short of the two was stocky in build, yet just as muscular as the taller. The remaining man was a wiry creature with thick glasses distorting intelligent, cunning eyes. His hair, which was brown except for a slightly reddish hue, was a mass of entangled curls atop his head. The pipe propped out of the corner of his mouth was lit and emitting the purple smoke of Drakeweed from its chamber. The craggy looking witch beside him cast an air freshing charm repeatedly in his direction, her gaze shrewd and disapproving.

Harry set his Omnioculars to record and set about capturing images of the four to be used to identify them later. He had no sooner finished taking a recording of the woman, when he felt his father tense and heard him emit a low growl. Zooming his Omnioculars back out to take in the full scope of the window once more, he saw why.

Peter Pettigrew – just as fat, though not as bald as he'd been in the other world, but with far less hair than he'd had nearly six years ago – was scurrying around the table with a silver serving tray filled with a variety of drinks.

"How?" James demanded, his voice accusatory.

"You and Sirius may have burned his mother's house to ash, but a rat is a rat," Harry said darkly.

"We sealed him in. I –" A strangled note clawed at James's throat, cutting him off. "He couldn't have survived." The admittance barely qualified as a whisper.

"Other than the trouble with Bones, it doesn't matter now, does it?" Harry asked, not unkindly, his gaze still fixed on Pettigrew's pathetic display of serving Kalinouski a glass of what most would assume to be wine, but Harry knew to be comprised of something far more sinister. The traitor was the key to this mess. He was sure of it. _If I could just get my hands on the bastard …_

For a second time in less than an hour, Harry's blood ran cold for reasons entirely unrelated to his rain soaked clothing and the night's chill ghosting across his exposed flesh.

Tom Marvolo Riddle – twenty years old – all rich, dark locks and frigid, calculating eyes – had stepped in front of the window Harry had been spying through, his very corporeal form turned towards the night and his power laced gaze staring directly into Harry's own.

"No," Harry denied, his utterance a vain protest, as his eyes locked upon the gold chain just visible at the base of Riddle's collar.

Vaguely, Harry was aware that Riddle spoke, gave an order – was aware that there was a flurry of activity behind the abomination that could hardly be called a man. Yet, he couldn't move, couldn't comprehend the situation or even remotely employ reason. He was paralyzed, utterly horrified.

The sudden explosion of noise around him snapped Harry out of his stupor, jolting him into the moment as effectively as a fist to the face. Breath filled his burning lungs, as his head jerked up from his Omnioculars and his muscles tensed with flight.

Eldrich Jaeger stood but feet from him with a manic grin plastered across his face, his wand leveled at the pavement where Harry and his father lay.

As the ebony wand curved through the air in the beginnings of countering the blanket of warding magic Harry had woven, Harry grabbed hold of his father and shredded his wards himself without a second thought. His heart beat a single beat and then he and his father were gone, over a dozen curses raining down on where they had been and impacting the pavement futilely.


	23. A Conversation

Harry let out a shuddered breath, as his father staggered away from him, the man pale and looking dangerously close to losing his dinner.

Harry didn't even try to hold back against his own stomach's attempt to turn itself inside out. He let nature take its course, bending over and sicking up everything he'd eaten before going to bed and dry heaving what he hadn't.

"A little warning next time."

Harry heard his father croak, as he convulsed with the magical backlash racking his body. "C-couldn't stop." He forced himself to look up at his father, clutching at the left side of his chest in an empty effort to slow his wildly beating heart. "Jaeger – the guy who got there first," he clarified when his father quirked an querying eyebrow at him. "He's a tracker."

James regarded Harry warily, his face going from pale to chalk white in the darkness of the night. "Good enough to track you?"

Harry nodded weakly. "I shredded my wards over us ... plus, with the collision of curses upon the point where we disapperated ... he shouldn't be able to pick up our trail, but … I had to be sure."

Before father or son could say anything more, there was a _clang_ of a heavy lock being unbolted and the thick oak doors of Castle Black swung inward, spilling torchlight down the stone steps leading up to the castle's entrance and across the cobblestone courtyard, lighting upon Harry and James's bedraggled forms. A house-elf stood silhouetted in the arch door frame.

The creature bowed lowly. "Master expects you in the parlor."

Harry traded glances to his father, before casting a quick vanishing charm to clean up his vomit. Upon tucking his Omnioculars into the interior pocket of his bomber jacket, he forced his shaky legs to carry him up the dark stone slabs to the open doors. Subsequently apparating 15 times wasn't something he'd ever heard to be wise, now he knew with certainty that it wasn't. Still, knowing with 99.99% surety that Jaeger wouldn't be tracking him and his father and would be just lucky to tap into an uncontaminated echo of his magical signature was well worth the momentary discomfort. Focusing his mind inward with the intent of righting his skewed sense of equilibrium, he marched into the entrance hall of Castle Black with purpose.

It had been over a year since Harry had last set foot in Castle Black. The entrance hall was as grand and extravagant as he remembered it. The stone walls and ceiling rose high above him by employment of Gothic arches that were supported exteriorly by flying buttresses, while achieving an impossible vault before their time by means of magic. The stained glass window that depicted the Gods of the Old Religion and spanned the expanse above the great oak doors like a temporal tapestry was dull with the cloudy, moonless night, only lit interiorly by the massive, gold crafted chandelier that hovered in perpetual defiance of gravity in accordance with the runes engraved along it's vine like surface.

The large family portrait at the top of the grand marble staircase was the only thing within the hall that appeared to have been updated since Harry's last visit. Sirius and Mayra didn't look any older in the new portrait than they had in the old one. Their three children, Aries, Mira, and Caelum, however, were a different story. The six year old Aries stood tall and proud beside his father, dressed in perfectly tailored dress robes and looking very much like a child version of Sirius right down to his steel colored eyes. Mira, standing directly in front of Sirius and dressed in a satin white dress robe, smiled a smile so reminiscent of her mother's smile that her Black heritage paled in comparison on her five year old face. Caelum, the youngest and the only one of the three to have inherited their mother's brown eyes, stood before Mayra. The two year old's hand was clasped firmly in his mother's, while he puffed his chest proudly.

The family of five waved in greeting to Harry and James, as the two stormed up the grand staircase and rounded the dimly, torch lit first floor hall in the direction of the parlor.

Mirth filled laughter greeted Harry's ears and became more distinct with his every step towards the parlor, passing portraits, paintings, and other various forms of one of a kind artwork along the way. He felt a twinge of irritation towards his godfather for being able to laugh so freely at a time like this stir within him. He forced it back. Sirius had no way of knowing just how fucked his and his father's morning had been so far.

_And it's not going to get any better,_ Harry thought bitterly, as he pushed open the heavy door barring him entrance to the parlor without bothering to knock. He, his father, and Sirius needed to have a conversation, one that he had hoped would never be necessary. Not to mention, Pettigrew's alive status had to be eating at his father and wouldn't be any more pleasant for his godfather to swallow.

"Harry …" Sirius's greeting trailed off and the inebriated smile slipped right off of his face, as he took in his godson's state. His startled gaze snapped onto James, upon the bespectacled man stepping into the parlor behind Harry.

"Shit, James," Frank Longbottom cursed, nearly chocking on his Firewhiskey. He set his glass down with concern plain in his eyes. His gaze swept from father to son and back again.

For an extended moment, Harry stood where he had come to a halted stop, taking in the scene before him. A fire crackled low in the stone hearth opposite the door and oil lamps and candles burned throughout the room. His godfather sat at the elm table that served as center piece for the room, his cigar burning in the crystal ashtray that he favored, while a glass of Firewhiskey was clutched in his hand, as if he were about to pick it up, but had froze mid-action. Frank was seated opposite him, dressed in civilian robes and looking exhausted. Between the two men, the half drunk decanter of Firewhiskey rested on the polished elm surface invitingly.

Harry strode forward, ignoring the eyes that followed him. Upon reach the table, he conjured himself a glass and picked up the decanter to poor himself a measure of its amber liquid, forcing his hand to remain steady as he did so. Hearing his father's approach behind, he was unsurprised when second glass appeared beside his own. He unquestioningly filled both glasses with a copious amount of alcohol.

As Harry proceeded to shrug off his dripping bomber jacket and toss it over the back of the nearest plush, leather armchair, which he then plopped down upon – joining his godfather and Frank at the table – James took his own glass and crossed the room over to the hearth.

Bring his glass up to his lips, Harry looked up and met Sirius's openly objectionable stare defiantly. The man glanced back at James pointedly and with expectation, as the first detectable trace of Firewhiskey crossing his tongue and burning down his throat. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see that Frank's reaction was on par with his godfather's and the man was looking to his father with similar expectation and objection.

James ignored the two men in favor of downing half of his whiskey in a single swallow and turning his back to the room to stare into the hearth.

"Give me that," Sirius said with authority and held out his hand for Harry's glass, as he round on his godson, clearly understanding that James wasn't about to demand Harry relinquish his drink.

"Let him keep it," James commanded, his gaze locked on the fire burning in the hearth and not as much as moving a muscle.

"Lily –" Sirius began in protest.

James let out a derisive snort. "What's one more thing kept from her? It's not like we don't lie to her face day in and day out." He let out a dark laugh that bordered on being hysterical. "When all this finally blows up in our face, we're dead men anyways."

"With an attitude like that, you can bet your life on it," Harry accused, glaring at his father's back grimly, while a whisper in the back of mind wondered if his father's pessimistic words would turn out to be the truth when all was said and done. He pushed the thought from his mind with ferocity. That line of thinking would get him killed.

"Malfoy, Burke, Nott, Olavi Lahti, Nicolau Dantès, the Sokal brothers, and your tracker pal, Jaeger," James listed off and turned to meet Harry's accusatory glare with one of his own. "Care to fill in the rest of the line up? Because that's only a little over half of their lot and our odds are pretty much royally fucked by them alone, the threat of Voldemort aside. Our Hit-Wizard ranks are at an all time low, our Auror Department is filled with god damn numskulls that can rarely tell their opponent from their own back side, and everyone knows that our DMLE Officers are useless beyond a simple case of Muggle baiting and the occasional pub brawl."

"Dumbledore? The Order?" Harry asked seriously, having already suspected the state of this world's DMLE. Peace time was not conducive to a military force. It had taken years to raise a proper militia in the other world. He'd been hoping to have the upcoming year to gather allies and assemble them in a workable force, before the fighting broke out, but with what he saw tonight, he doubted that he'd have even the few months before the winter holidays.

It was Sirius who expressed doubt this time, though he looked a bit lost as to what Harry and James were on about. "Albus wouldn't trust anything we have to say, not after …" He trailed of, sharing a significant look with James.

"About _that._ " James dug into the breast pocket of his saturated cloak and, with fury marring his brow, chucked his Omnioculars to Sirius with more force than was strictly necessary.

Harry took a long drink of his Firewhiskey, as his godfather caught the Omnioculars and brought them up to obscure his vision and start the playback. He welcomed the haze of the alcohol pumping through his bloodstream. He could already feel himself recovering from his and his father's jaunt across Britain and the alcohol numbing the traitorous anxiety and fear threating to consume him. He closed his eyes, employing Occlumency to finish the job. He had known that he wasn't going to be pleased with what he saw tonight, but never had he thought that Voldemort would be so close to obtaining a permanent body.

"Er …" Frank made to stand. "I think I'll just –"

"Sit!" The barked command from Harry, James, and Sirius, who hadn't bothered to look away from the Omnioculars's playback, had Frank lowering himself back into his chair, looking decidedly wary.

Harry regarded the man speculatively, his eyes roving over Frank Longbottom's muscular form and taking in the man's keen blue eyes which he had long associated with the man's son. He hadn't forgotten that Frank was in the room with them. He just hadn't cared, as the Obliviation Charm was quite effective in said situations.

As if reading Harry's mind, James discretely drew his wand behind Frank back.

"A person Dumbledore trusts could prove imperative." Harry cocked his head, his eyes never leaving Frank, subtly telling his father to hold off on the memory wipe. He wasn't entirely sure that Frank couldn't be of use to them, if Dumbledore would prove to be truly unwilling to trust information passed to him by his father or godfather. It had been publicly known for years that Sirius's relationship with Dumbledore – and with several other Order of the Phoenix members that he had once gotten on with – had deteriorated immensely in the last six or so years, but he hadn't thought that his father stood on similar shaky ground. Recent events accounted for, however, his father's standing had to be at least questionable by this point. His fellow British were a superstitious lot and the House of Peverell wasn't remembered for kissing babies. Bones's off the mark conjectures certainly wouldn't help matters either.

"If you lot are up to sharing information and working with the Order, I'm all ears," Frank said in a carefully composed, even tone, looking directly at Harry as the de facto authority in the room. He'd most definitely been listening to their conversation and drawing his own conclusions from what he'd heard. "But if your not, I'd rather not hear more than I have. Deniability and all, when the bodies start dropping."

In show of the amusement Frank's pronouncement brought him, Harry smirked. He'd always like the Longbottoms – loyal, observant, and, at times, infallibly blunt. "Bodies?" he asked, putting on an innocent face.

"I had you in my direct sight the other night, Lord Peverell." Frank met Harry's gaze meaningfully. "I'm more than grateful for what you did for my son – for everyone in that ballroom – but you won't find one person that witnessed you drop that woman willing to believe she was your first kill or that you wouldn't kill again just as easily."

"Careful, Auror." Harry brought his Firewhiskey to his lips. Behind his glass, he said, "I might just get the impression that you believe me capable of premeditated murder."

"Such a belief would be most difficult to prove in actuality, I'm sure." Frank wet his lips, his eyes studying Harry cautiously. "I'll say again, if you've something you'd like to share with me, now's the time. Otherwise, I'd rather be going."

Harry leaned back in his chair, placing his Firewhiskey on the table and taking the time to consider the man before him fully. He'd known Frank his entire life in this world, yet knew very little about the man in truth. He knew even less about him from the man's counterpart in the other world. He wanted to believe that he could trust Frank Longbottom in this world as much as he had once trusted Neville in the other world.

"He's a good fighter," James said, boring his eyes into Harry. His empty glass rested on the hearth beside him. "He's close to Albus and Mad-Eye, still has the trust of the Order, whatever you're thinking on that front may be."

"Tonight changes things," Harry said gravely, speaking to his father, yet not looking away from Frank. "I no longer have the time needed to insert myself into Dumbledore's confidence. Nor can I in good conscience sit on the information we've obtained. I hesitate in bring the Ministry's attention to the matter, naturally, but Dumbledore … I trust him to know how best to handle the situation without screwing us. Unless," his eyes snapped to his father, "there's a reason I shouldn't trust him."

"Just be careful." James gave Harry a dark, warning look that told of his own distrust towards the man they spoke of. "That's all I can say. Your and Albus's views differ greatly."

Harry nodded. He knew well just how different his and Dumbledore's views were, as well as understood his father's message, which was hardly news to him: one wrong move, one wrong word, and Dumbledore could just as easily be his enemy as his ally. If it ever came to that, he'd play the redemption card that Dumbledore so loved to believe in. If Dumbledore had a single weakness that could be exploited without fail, it was his ability to relate to deep remorse. Though, some would argue that his ability to do so was the man's greatest strength. Seeing as said ability had led to Dumbledore being killed in cold blood by a man he believed redeemed in the other world, Harry had to agree with former view point rather than the latter.

Harry took another long drink of his Firewhiskey – polishing off his glass – and shifted his gaze back to Frank.

"What do you make of me?" he asked, deciding to make his decision regarding using Frank to bring Voldemort's current activities to Dumbledore's attention upon the man's answer. Bill Weasley, who he now planned on getting in contact with sooner rather than later, was an option as well, though Frank definitely had a stronger standing with Dumbledore and the Order.

"You're dangerous," Frank said without hesitation or an ounce of doubt, looking entirely sober as he met Harry's gaze with bold eyes and his posture straighten to that of a man of conviction. "Far more so than any kid your age has any right to be. If I wasn't certain that some part of you cares deeply for my son, I wouldn't be tempted to trust you or anything you've allowed me to see or hear in the slightest." He raked his eyes up and down Harry's form, as if forcing himself to accept that the teen before him wasn't just an illusion. "I'd like to believe that the son of James and Lily Potter is capable of restraint, but I know what I see before me and what I saw the other night. _I_ _nvaincu et sans miséricorde –_ never did anyone in the last seven hundred years ever dream just how true those words would turn out to be."

"I do care for your son," Harry confirmed. _For his sanity and my family, I'll fight this war until I've nothing left to fight for_. "He's been a good friend to me ov–"

"That sniveling, traitorous, little rat!" Sirius very nearly knocked over his chair in his rush to stand. In his flurried anger, the Omnioculars he'd been viewing clattered to the floor and his two-thirds filled glass of Firewhiskey splashed across the table, the empty glass rolling ominously towards the edge of the table to join the Omnioculars.

Harry was up and out of his chair in a instant, knowing his godfather all to well.

Sirius had no sooner taken a step towards the parlor door when his godson leveled his cherry wand at his chest.

"Don't be stupid," Harry said plainly, meeting his godfather's furious gaze that all but audibly commanded him to move out of the way unrepentantly.

"Sit down, Sirius." James left his place by the hearth. In three long strides, his grip was strong on the forearm of Sirius's wand arm.

Sirius turned to glare at James, as if James moving to stop him as well was a betrayal to them both.

"I know," James said and a visceral sort of understanding seemed to pass between the two men, before their gazes shifted to Harry.

"I'd say that you lot could have him," Harry lowered his wand, "but considering I'm the one he actually tried to kill – more than once if you get my meaning – I do believe I've the right to call dibs."

"We Obliviated you!" Sirius sputtered.

Harry looked to his father. The man didn't share Sirius's shock.

"Think about who you're talking to, Sirius," James said, releasing Sirius's arm and turning back towards the hearth. He quietly summoned the decanter of Firewhiskey as he did so. "I wouldn't be surprised if the Obliviation didn't take back then. I don't want to know," he added, as he poor himself another copious glass of Firewhiskey, his last words clearly directed at Harry.

The Obliviation had taken. Harry – or rather Porteur – had simply broken through it when merging his two selves. Compared to his other world memories, Pettigrew holding a wand to his eight year old throat and demanding wildly why he couldn't 'just shut up and hold his tongue, like a good boy', all the while making it clear that he planned on killing him as soon as he worked up the nerve, was barely worth noting as an attempt to murder him in his book. His father and godfather felt very different about the whole affair, as he well knew and Pettigrew found out, upon the two barging into Pettigrew's mother's house looking ready blast the rat to smithereens.

Harry wasn't entirely sure what had happened between Pettigrew, his father, and his godfather, after his father had taken him home, Obliviated him, and said not even a comforting word to him, as he'd stormed right back out of the house still in a rage. All he knew about Pettigrew's supposed murder was what his father had confirmed for him earlier and what he'd observed over the last six years – Sirius drinking himself into a stupor every chance that doing so might be deemed acceptable and his father throwing himself almost obsessively into his work, while doing his best to balance the demands of his home life.

_And they wonder why Bones is still attempting to finger them for murder and other nefarious activities over half a decade later,_ Harry thought forlornly. The Black and Potter vaults had bought his father and godfather their freedom, as well as both alibiing each other out, but that hadn't change the fact that anyone with two brain cells to rub together had known even back then who had done Pettigrew in. The fact that Pettigrew had gone to the DMLE just hours before kidnapping him and had reported his father and Sirius to be former Death Eaters and had volunteered to be a key witness against the two in trade for the Ministry's protection … well, Amelia Bones hadn't been able to prove that either, but she had sure tried.

Sirius resumed his seat, albeit unwillingly.

Harry, after assuring himself that Sirius was settled, returned his attention to Frank. The blond man looked distinctly perturbed, frowning between his companions with a knitted brow.

"I've a proposition for you," Harry said, drawing Frank's attention solely to him. He picked up his bomber jacket from the back of his chair and retrieved his Omnioculars. He tossed his coat back onto his chair and stepped forward, setting the Omnioculars down on the table directly in front of Frank. His eyes bore into Frank's with the gravity of his next words. "Take these to Dumbledore – put forth your greatest effort to conceal from who, where, and how you came by them and refrain from revealing or discussing what you heard tonight to any other being outside of ourselves – and I will guarantee your son's life to the very best of my ability as long as I breath. I do believe you've heard enough to night to understand the position I'm offering to put myself in."

Frank swallowed visibly and glanced to James, almost as if he expected James to protest Harry's offer. At receiving silence and no indication that James was about to protest anything at all, he looked back to Harry.

Harry quirked an eyebrow at the man, challenging him to refuse him.

"I just bring these to Dumbledore?" Frank asked, picking up the Omnioculars and looking them over. "That's it?"

"Following my parameters, yes," Harry confirmed.

"No oaths or anything?" Frank gave Harry a searching look.

"Should I not trust you?" Harry asked, knowing without a doubt that he could trust Frank with the task set. "Or is it that you don't trust me to keep my word?"

Frank regarded Harry for a measured moment. Finally, he claimed the Omnioculars fully into his possession, placing them in an interior pocket of his robes. He stood, rising to his full height to tower a good six inches over Harry. "If Dumbledore calls on the Order," he looked to Sirius and then to James, "should you be taken into consideration?"

"If he's willing to take the risk." James nodded stiffly and brought his refilled glass of Firewhiskey to his lips.

Frank looked for the briefest of seconds as if he had a lot he wanted to say to James. "Sirius?" he asked, turning to said man instead.

"We both know he won't ask for me." Sirius looked up at Frank with sincerity.

"But if I were to vouch for you and James?" Frank offered.

"I've always had James's back," Sirius said in answer, giving neither an affirmative or a negative answer to his willingness to rejoin the Order.

Frank accepted Sirius's answer for what it was, and with a hasty good night and stating his intentions to show himself out, he quit the room.

The second that the parlor room door snapped shut behind the blond man, Harry set about setting privacy wards to ensure that his and his father and godfather's following conversation would not be overheard or interrupted.

"Did you ever grant Pettigrew access to Grimmauld Place?" Harry round on Sirius and demanded without so much as a lead in or waiting for his godfather to register the wards he'd set.

Sirius paled almost instantly at the question and made to get up once again. His godson's wand leveling at his throat this time, stilled him.

"I'll take that as a yes," Harry said with a displeased scowl tugging at his lips, pieces of the night's puzzle sliding into place to paint a picture he did not like. He tilted his wand just so, a silent instruction for his godfather. He wasn't done with the man just yet. Sirius could correct his error later, once he had the information he needed and had imparted the information he now felt necessary for his father and godfather to know.

Sirius followed Harry's wand warily and sunk back into his chair, as commanded.

"You never revoked the permissions either." It was a statement, not a question.

"No," Sirius admitted, his eyes sliding up Harry's wand to his godson's face, "I didn't." His glare was open and his restraint visible.

"Did you ever notice a gold locket on display in the drawing room – on the second shelf, about the center, in the left cabinet?" Harry's entire focus was intent on the man before him, his being tensed with anticipation for Sirius's answer. He hoped beyond hope that his godfather would confirm that the Locket of Salazar Slytherin had once resided in Grimmauld Place. His knowledge from the other world just couldn't be _that_ off. The Locket had to have been there and Pettigrew had to have retrieved it. "Think, Sirius," he all but growled, when Sirius didn't respond right away.

"I don't know!" Sirius regarded Harry's wand with trepidation. "I – He volunteered to help clean the place out. We never even finished the kitchen before the little fuck did what he did and shit went down the way it went down. He was supposed to be dead! If this locket you're on about was there and it's not now, he probably packed it off when he scurried back to his master like the traitorous rat that he is. I sure as hell have never seen it."

"Kreacher, call Kreacher," Harry ordered. If Sirius didn't know anything about the Locket, then surely Kreacher had seen it in the house, if the Locket had ever resided within Grimmauld Place at all.

"Kreacher died last week, Harry," Sirius said almost apologetically.

"What?" Harry felt himself reeling inside. At the same time, certainty slammed home within him, the final pieces of the puzzle falling into place. Kreacher's death was no coincidence. Voldemort was covering his tracks. The Locket _had_ resided within Grimmauld Place at one point and Kreacher had known about it. There wasn't a part of him that doubt it, even if he couldn't technically prove as much. As a trace of relief slithered down his spine and settled his gut, he belated registered that he was still holding his godfather at wand point. "Sorry," he murmured and holstered his wand.

"I take it this locket is important," Sirius ventured cautiously.

Harry glanced from Sirius to his father, who had been watching him with his own wand in hand. Meeting his father's narrowed eyes, he understood as plain as day that it would have been him that his father aimed for had he actually attempted to hex Sirius just then.

"You could say it's important," Harry agreed, looking back to his godfather. _This is not going to be a pleasant conversation_ , he thought to himself grimly. "Considering that it housed a shard of Voldemort's soul and is now the anchor for Voldemort's current, very corporeal avatar, I'd say it's actually a little bit more than important."


	24. Morning

The morning sun glowed orange on the horizon. The night's clouds, breaking up and dispelling with it's ascension.

Harry watched two robins twitter and fly about in a dance only they new through the parlor window that overlook the expanse of the Cotswolds to the east. He could feel his father and godfather's eyes on him, pressing upon him with a hundred questions that neither was certain they were allowed to ask, let alone actually wanted to know the answers to.

The crystal decanter that had been half full of Firewhiskey, upon Harry and his father's arrival, had long been emptied and rested as a testament to how their morning had been spent. The cooled ashes in the hearth told the same tale, perhaps even more prominently. Not one of the room's occupants had had the presence of mind to place another log upon the flames and the elves of Castle Black hadn't dared to disturb the them, no doubt sensing the severity and clandestine nature of their conversation.

"The offer you made Frank," Harry heard his father say, "you had every intention of protecting Neville just the same, regardless of if he had agreed to go to Dumbledore with the Omnioculars or not."

"Yes," Harry answered flatly, turning to look at his father. The man looked as if he were deathly ill – pale, dark shadows beneath his eyes, hair throughly messed, and the insurmountable stress brought on by his son's words and the cumulation of events in his life as of late wracked his body visibly. "He's highly vulnerable right now. Not killable by any means, but very much in danger of reverting back to the mere shade that he became thirteen years ago, when his attempt to kill Neville failed due to Augusta's sacrifice. In order for him to circumvent the protection Augusta's sacrifice left on Neville, plus with his belief in the Prophecy, he'll not settle for another's blood."

"If we destroy the Locket …?" Sirius looked to Harry with askance, seeking confirmation that his grasp on Horcrux theory was correct. He had faired the foreboding tide of information that Harry had shared only slightly better than James had. Nonetheless, he was perceptibly shake by what Harry had revealed.

Harry nodded, feeling sympathy for both men. He had divulged to them in a few hours what Dumbledore had taken nearly a year to divulge to him in the other world. The old man had been far too kind to him, had loved him far too much, just as he had assured him the night that Sirius had died in the Department of Mysteries Skirmish. They hadn't had the time then to make allowance for what had remained of his dismal childhood, to attempt to preserve the last of his innocence – innocence that he had cast aside guiltily behind his mentor's back each night that he'd retreated to a long abandoned room or corridor of Hogwarts Castle and had delved ever deeper into the Dark Arts, making good use of the texts that he had filched from the Black Library over the previous summer and the gold mine that had been _Advanced Potion-Making_ , annotated by the Half-Blood Prince.

Harry internally grimace. It still irked him that the Half-Blood Prince had turned out to be Severus Snape, who had lived just long enough to murder Dumbledore and make it known to Harry who the Half-Blood Prince – a person Harry had practically idolized all year – actually was. Dumbledore's attempt to allow him to remain a somewhat normal sixteen year old just a bit longer had failed, failed epically. He'd left Hogwarts that year with blood stained hands and vengeance burning his heart.

A part of Harry to this day wondered what might have become of the war in the other world had Dumbledore told him about the Horcruxes straight up. He'd wasted so much time in getting the memory Dumbledore had wanted him to obtain from Slughorn. He hadn't taken the matter seriously, thinking he had far more important things to be doing, like actually learning how to fight a war and attempting to unravel what Draco Malfoy had been up to in the Room of Requirement. A three hour conversation, like the one he had just had with his father and godfather, would have put them both on the same page, before they had ever headed down Tom Riddle's memory lane.

Harry pushed the nugatory notion to the back of his mind, as he had done time and time again in the other world. _There's only the future and what one does with it._

"With the Locket's soul shard manifested fully, the Locket can be as easily destroyed as if it were any other piece of jewelry," Harry reiterated for his godfather. "Once destroyed, Voldemort would be as he was prior to the Locket manifesting and providing him with a corporeal form to latch on to."

"That's the plan then?" Sirius asked, looking as if he hoped that it was, yet dreaded it being so.

Harry returned his gaze to looking out the window and, after a pause, uttered the one word that would either doom them all or finally rid this world of Voldemort forever – proclaiming with it the reason for why he had elected to share what he had shared with the two men.

"No."

"What do you mean 'no'?" James demanded, his voice thick with the stress he was feeling and a sense of profound disbelief. "You can't possibly –"

"I can and I do," Harry stated firmly, unwilling to look either his father or his godfather in the eye, as he admitted his intentions – intentions that made _him_ cringe inside and left him wishing desperately that there was another way. "Upon the completion of the Final Task of the Triwizard Tournament, Voldemort will have Neville's blood and will return to the height of his power."

The silence that fell over the room was so tense that Harry could feel its sharp, jagged edges slicing into him, leaving him vulnerable under his father and godfather's scrutiny. He winced and his breath still unconsciously at the scrape of his godfather's chair, as the man pushed back from the table and made to stand. He breathed out a half-second later when Sirius did not storm out of the room or do anything more than take up a contemplative sort of pacing behind where he'd been sitting.

"You can't be considering this … this madness!" James round on Sirius, clearly having hoped to have Sirius as an ally on the matter. "Neville Longbottom is a child, not an object to be protected one minute and deliberately hand over to Voldemort –"

"Voldemort only needs a drop or two of Neville's blood," Harry interrupted his father. "He doesn't need to bleed Neville dry. I promised Frank that I'd guarantee Neville's life to the best of my ability, and I have every intention of keeping my word."

"Every intention of keeping your word?" James's gaze cut back to Harry with anger and a distinct lack of recognition, as if he could hardly believe Harry was his son at all at the moment.

"Yes." Harry met his father's irate gaze with knowledge in his eyes of information that he had not shared and had no intention of sharing. "To guarantee Neville's life, as I've pledged to do, Voldemort must use Neville's blood to obtain an actual body. I'd attempt to convince him to use my blood, if I could, but it has to be – absolutely has to be – Neville's blood that he uses."

That seemed to give Sirius pause. The man stood rigid where his feet had faltered in his pacing and regarded Harry speculatively.

Harry returned his gaze, once more, to the window. The first sun beams had begun to crest the tree line. He didn't know if Neville was a Horcrux with definite certainty, but his friend's scar had been red and agitated looking the other night and that was enough for him to be reasonably sure that a fractured piece of Voldemort's soul had attached itself to Neville, as his own lightning bolt scar in the other world had acted similarly.

Harry could still remember how tainted – ill to the depths of his own soul – he had felt when he had learned at the age of nineteen that he'd been one of Voldemort's Horcruxes all along. The last thing he had wanted at the time was for anyone else to know. The realization that Dumbledore had known had been bad enough and had left him with the taste of betrayal in his mouth, as well as made sense of a lot of Dumbledore's actions regarding him and their many disagreements over his six year. He had finally understood that he'd been meant to die, to be a martyr. He hadn't ever been the one meant to deliver the final blow to Voldemort, not literally. Dumbledore had wanted him to find the Horcruxes and destroy them, before sacrificing himself to a greater cause.

Whether Dumbledore knew that Neville was a Horcrux in this world or not, Harry planned to say 'fuck you' to his friend fulfilling the role of martyr, just as he had in the other world. Perhaps the more honorable thing for Neville to do would be to walk into the arms of death, once all the other Horcruxes were destroyed, but Harry cared little for honor. Honor was for those without the stomach to live. By the time he was done with Neville, the blond boy would want to live, as well as have the stomach for it, and he, Harry, would see to it that he would – guarantee it, just as he had given his word to Frank.

"Voldemort will obtain a body eventually," Harry said with steadfast conviction. "It is inevitable. If we destroy the Locket, he'll just use another one of his Horcruxes to rise again. We could repeat this process many times, but eventually, we'll slip up and he will have Neville's blood. Or, he'll admit defeat and use another's blood instead, which would be far more devastating with consequence I've no desire to carry out. Ten months is playing the long odds as it is."

"That's no reason to just hand Neville over to him," James countered harshly, not assuaged in his position on the matter in the slightest.

"But it is." Harry looked to his father, beseeching the man to understand. "Is it not better for Neville, safer, if we control when Voldemort finally does hold the ritual to obtain his new body, rather than being caught unaware and without a plan to extract him?"

"We might just be able to control the when, Harry, but the questions of where, how, and who will be present are just as important, if we're to have any hope of getting Neville out alive," Sirius said grimly. "Are you certain that he'll use the same ritual as the one that he used in the other world?"

Harry nodded. "It's the only way to create a truly stable vessel. Other methods … they're far too risky and the end product is … grotesque, to say the least. As for where he'll hold the ritual, he'll hold it above his father's grave. A final 'screw you, Dad', I believe. Although, even if he does decide to hold it some place else, he'll keep it close to Little Hangleton. His mother and father's blood originated in the area, which will only serve to strengthen the ritual. And as for who will be present, I imagine he'll have the elite of his army there to witness him prove his immortality."

Harry glanced from his godfather to his father. The blatant mention of Voldemort's immortal status had caused his father to flinch. In all honesty, both men appeared thoroughly overwhelmed by their conversation, as if any addition strenuous information would meet their break point. "I'm not asking either of you to have a direct hand in turning Neville over to Voldemort," he assured the two. "Voldemort will take care of that bit himself. For now, I just need to you to understand the situation and what is a stake, so later on when I ask you to do something for me that sounds off and like I might actually be working for the other side, we don't have to have this conversation."

Silence filled the room, as a sense of finality descended with Harry's proclamation. The understanding that his mind was made up and nothing could be said or done to change it arrested the remaining protests that James and Sirius had regarding the matter. Neither looked even remotely pleased or agreeable to his intentions, but the trust between them was apparently enough for both to accept, if only subconsciously, that he had his reasons.

As the minutes stretched on – each man becoming lost in his own thoughts – the sun rose fully over the horizon.

"Sun up," Harry murmured, his eyes fixed upon the making of a new day and thoughts drifting to his mother and sister. Both were early risers, and he couldn't help but wonder, if his mother had already woken to a half empty house.

James released a heady breath and ran a hand through his hair across the table. He met his son's gaze and the silent agreement that it was time for them to go passed between them.

"I'll walk you out," Sirius offered, looking exhausted in the morning light. Out of the three of them, he was the only one to not get any sleep at all last night.

Harry nodded and made to stand, knowing that his godfather was most likely as eager to get to bed as he and his father were to get home before his mother woke.

James stood as well, and the three of them made for the parlor door.

As they headed up the adorned, first floor corridor back towards the grand staircase and entrance hall, Harry fell several steps behind his father and godfather, who seemed to be having a private conversation by employment of meaningful glances alone.

"I'll talk it over with Lily," James said with a sigh, as he and Sirius rounded the banister that overlooked the entrance hall and started down the grand staircase, passing the Black Family Portrait without a sparing glance.

"You'll talk what over with you wife, James Potter?"

His mother's voice, specifically the note of warning that it contained, froze Harry in his prepared descent of the grand staircase, after his father and godfather.

James and Sirius halted in their own descent, as if having been caught in the refection of a basilisk's gaze. Ever so slowly, all three turned in the direction of Lily Potter's voice.

Upon recognizing the foreboding look on his mother's face almost instantly, as she and Mayra – both still dressed in their night robes – entered the entrance hall through the open double doors off to the right of the hall that led to great hall, which served as the Black's dining room outside of the few annual events they hosted, Harry did what any wise man in his position would do. He stepped back from the stairs, turned on his heel, and attempted to pull off a subtle retreat, hoping his mother and Mayra would be more concerned with his father and godfather than him.

"Don't your dare Harold James!"

_Ouch!_ Harry thought, halting mid-step back along the banister towards the parlor room.

"Back here now, mister."

Though Harry had his back to his mother, he could see her in his mind's eye standing in all her fury with her hands on her hips. He thanked the Gods that he was very close to being fully sober, as the current situation would get all the worse, if he hadn't been. With the least amount of movement possible, very aware of the pressing need to get rid of the condemning evidence, he drew his wand and cast a quick mouth refreshing spell upon himself.

Harry turned to face his mother with his wand back in its holster and a minty taste predominating his mouth. "Good morning, Mum," he greeted as casually as if the morning were any other morning, forcing what he hoped was a charming smile onto his face.

Lily's eyes narrowed dangerously at her son. Her red hair was in a wild mess that somewhat resembled a bun a top her head. She stood glaring at him with her hands firmly on her hips, just as Harry had expected. "Beds empty, no note," she said in a low whisper that seethed with raw emotion, her gaze cutting to her husband, before returning to her son. "You could have been anywhere. You could have been dead! And 'Good morning, Mum' is what I get."

"Lily –"

"No!" Lily yelled, her face nearly as red as her hair and her eyes glinting, as they locked onto James. "No, James, you don't get to 'Lily' me! Not today! Not after the morning we've had."

"Morning you've had," Sirius growled under his breath with derision. The look on his face clearly communicating his belief that no one could possibly have had a worse morning than his, James, and Harry's morning so far.

Harry had to agree with his godfather's sentiments. Their morning had most definitely been worse than his mother and Mayra's morning, as very few things could top it and he sincerely doubted that his mother and Mayra had experienced any of the things that could.

"Don't you even start, Sirius." Mayra snapped at her husband, her brown eyes cold and filled with displeasure. " _'I'll be up to bed in a bit. I promise – as soon as Frank and I finish our drinks,'_ " she said mockingly. "Sound familiar?"

"Vaguely," Sirius admitted stiffly.

Lily and Mayra exchanged heated glances.

_Not good, so not good,_ Harry thought warily, his experience from the other world telling him that conspiring women meant nothing but trouble for the males in their vicinity, especially the ones they were hacked off at.

"Lily," Mayra said with false sweetness, "I do believe our husbands and your son are under the impression that just because we allow them to keep their secrets, they are free to do whatever they please."

"It would seem so, wouldn't it?" Lily agreed.

"Like not coming to bed when they say they will, let alone at all," Mayra supplied with the same false sweetness, her gaze zeroing in on Sirius.

"And running off in the middle of the night without any indication of where they're going." Lily's eyes were practically daggers by this point, as she glared mutinously at her husband and son.

"Or any indication of when they'll be back," Mayra added, her tone filled with accusation and her eyes finding Harry. "Or who they're running off with."

"Oh," Lily said, her tone bitting, "and leaving us to deal with a very curious Alastor Moody, who just so happens to think that we actually want something to do with him and Albus and their merry band of men at five _bloody_ o'clock in the morning!"

Harry blinked. _Okay,_ he rescinded his previous assessment of his mother and Mayra's morning, _that's a pretty shitty morning._ In fact, dealing with Mad-Eye anytime between the hours of ten at night and six in the morning was synonymous to a waking nightmare, as far as he was concerned.

"Yes?" Lily looked up to her husband with expectation, her arms crossing over her chest.

"What'd you tell him?" James winced as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

Harry winced along with his father. _Better him than me,_ he thought selfishly, desiring the answer to his father's question just as much as his father apparently did, but was wiser or just more unwilling to further provoke his mother than his father was.

"What did I tell him?" Lily demanded with incredulity. "What did I tell him!" She looked to Mayra pointedly, as if to say: _this_ is what we have to put up with. Upon rounding back on her husband, her son, and Sirius, she looked ready to start firing curses at them. "How about we start with what he told us! Then again, the news that Voldemort is active again, isn't news to you lot, is it?"

There was no denying the accusation. Harry was sure that his knowledge showed on his face, just as neither his father nor his godfather put forth the effort to appear even remotely surprised.

"I didn't think so," Lily said coldly.

"I'm sorry," James said softly, sounding as if he were apologizing for the world over.

Harry remained rigid, as his mother's gaze shifted to him. An apology was on the tip of his own tongue and about to cross his lips, when she abruptly returned her glare to his father.

"If anything happens to him, James," Lily threatened, eyes fierce and her expression dead serious, "I swear even Amelia Bones won't be able to locate your body."

James nodded. It was a jerky motion, as if doing so cost him.

The following silence that enveloped the entrance hall was tense. The women were clearly still pissed and the men were rightly wary of saying or doing anything that might further upset them.

The _whoosh_ , as the floo flared to life in the floo room broke through the heavy quiet and caused all five occupants of the entrance hall to look to the open archway at the far end of the hall. The energetic whistle of one Remus Lupin echoed out into the hall. As the tawny haired man rounded the archway, however, his whistle cut off and his steps faltered. Upon his keen eyes taking in the scene before him, the smile that he had worn faded into non-existence and his features closed off.

Sirius cleared his throat awkwardly. "Morning, Remus," he greeted obligatorily, before making to finish his descent down the stairs, his every step infused with the elegance and power known to him. At the bottom of the grand staircase, he turned to his friend with evident exhaustion and a warm smile that was painfully forced. "We've not gotten the kids up yet, so you're going to have to be pacified with breakfast for the time being."

"Sounds lovely," Remus said tightly, his eyes sweeping from one strained face to the next. "Have I missed something?"

"Albus is reforming the Order." The gravity that Sirius spoke with and the grim look that replaced his smile all to easily left little doubt as to why the Order was reforming.

Remus paled.

"There's a meeting today at noon. Frank's hosting it," Mayra said, earning the attention of not only Remus, but of her husband, James, and Harry. "Dumbledore wants us all there, if we're willing." Her eyes rose from Remus and met Harry's gaze directly. "All of _us."_

Harry pursed his lips. This, he was going to have to think about. He hadn't intended to get directly involved with the Order of the Phoenix. But with the opportunity presented at present, he could hardly say 'no' outright without giving the offer due consideration. Although, he could already anticipate the frustration that such an alliance would bring him, as well as the arguments that would ensue. He was far too proactive, while Dumbledore was far too passive, their moral differences and conflicting views on magic aside.


	25. The Order of the Phoenix

Harry's breaths were ragged and his heart was beating a rapid, demanding tattoo in his chest. He could feel the sweat dripping from his brow and the beads of perspiration forming and sliding down the back of his neck. He slowed his pace, his lungs burning and refusing to allow him to continue at a run. While he could employ Occlumency to ignore such ails and push himself to the extreme, the whole point of working out was to push himself physically without having to use mental energy.

Harry raised his hands above his head and continued at a steady walk, refusing to give into the urge to stop and double over with panted breaths. _Pathetic,_ he thought to himself derisively, as the soles of his running shoes sunk into the soft forest floor repeatedly, being caked with an ever thickening layer of mud and forest debris. In the other world, he been able to run for miles, while keeping up a decent pace that had allowed him to put significant amounts of distance between him and his start point within just a few hours. Not to mention, he'd been able to fight in battles that had lasted not only hours, but sometimes days.

All Harry could manage in his current body was a five minute sprint, before having to slow back down to a walk and catch his breath. He'd repeated this sequence several times already and was closing in on his family's cottage once more. Upon stepping from the forest boundary into the back garden and moving quickly beyond the last sliver of shade that remained of the morning sun's rise above the forest to beat down on Godric's Hollow, the nearly high noon sun seared his already heated flesh. He followed the garden's center path, casting cleaning and drying charms on his running shoes as he did so. His mother would be even more displeased with him than she already was, if he tracked mud into the house.

"Ten minutes, Harry."

Harry heard his mother call to him from the kitchen, as he dashed through the back door and made for the stairs. "No worries, Mum," he said, knowing that he only needed five minutes at the most. Upon rounding the top of the stairs, he was met with a slammed door from up the hall.

_Bethany._

Harry regarded his sister's closed door with a cross between annoyance and concern for but a half-second, before turning and making for the bathroom. He needed a shower and to get dressed in clothing that wasn't soaked through with sweat. He didn't have time to deal with his sister, who had refused to talk to him or so much as look at him or his father all morning. She'd even snubbed Sirius at breakfast, much to their host's displeasure. Apparently, they were all liars, which wasn't exactly something that they could deny. Entering the bathroom swiftly, he turned on the shower to a lukewarm temperature and began shrugging off his sticky, dirty, and distinctly smelly shirt. His shoes, socks, shorts, and pants were soon to follow.

It was over seven minutes later that Harry stood in his family's sitting room – showered, dressed in a casual tunic shirt, jeans, and his boots, and munching on a sandwich his mother had made him. His father stood beside him, looking like the nap that he'd taken, after they'd finally returned home for what had remained of the morning, had at least taken the edge off.

_Lucky bastard,_ Harry thought with envy. He had tried to take a nap as well, but had been too restless and had been forced to settle for a ridiculously long workout session instead.

"... and try not to spend it all in one place," his mother continued to lecture Bethany, as she hand over a money pouch filled with one and five pound notes to her daughter. "You may have to buy yourselves dinner."

Bethany glared, her hazel eyes communicating that they had best be home before dinner, because the world would surely end if she had to babysit the Black children well into supper. The fact that her mother had just given her a significant amount of cash for her and the Black children to enjoy the Garlic Festival with was far from being a consolation.

Lily sighed. "This is important, Bethany. I need you to be a grown-up about this. Please."

"Just because Harry wants to play grown-up –" Bethany began, casting a nasty look at her brother.

"You brother is doing what he must," James said sharply, silencing Bethany under an authoritative stare. "And you will do what you must to support this family. You'll be turning twelve at the end of the month. That's old enough to start taking on some responsibility."

Before another word could be so much as uttered, the floo flared and Sirius stepped out carrying Caelum in his arms – the man dressed in wizard attire and the toddler dressed in appropriate Muggle attire. Sirius had no sooner stepped aside, when Mayra arrived with Mira clutching her right hand and Aries clutching her left hand. The two elder Black children were also dressed to fit in with the Muggles. Aries had been fitted with denim shorts, a plain white shirt, and sandals, similar to his younger brother's outfit, while Mira had on a pretty pink sun dress adorned with daisies.

"Bethany," Mira exclaimed excitedly, her young face lighting up at the sight of the older black haired girl. With all the energy and eagerness of a five year old, she dashed away from her mother's attempt to rid her of soot and launched herself at Bethany, who barely caught the younger girl and prevented them both from careening back into the couch. "Mummy says we get to stay with you!"

"Yes, you do," Bethany confirmed, smiling a fake smile. "Won't it be fun?" Her sarcasm was lost on the five year old, but not on the adults.

Mira nodded enthusiastically, looking like she couldn't think of anything that could possibly be more fun.

"Why isn't Harry staying?" Aries pouted, as he batted away his mother's wand, clearly deciding that he was as free of soot as he was going to get. He sounded as if he'd asked the question several times already and was unsatisfied with the answers he'd gotten. This time, he directed his question at James and Lily, rather than his own mother and father.

"Hawy bye-byes wif Dada 'n' Mama." Caelum glowered at his older brother, as Sirius set him down, looking as if he couldn't understand what his brother didn't understand about the concept.

Aries rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I get _that_ , but why –"

"I'm not late, am I?" Remus asked, as he tumbled out of the floo and nearly knocked into the Blacks.

"Uncle Remus, why does Harry get to go and we don't?" Aries turned to the tawny haired man and crossed his arms over his chest with petulance plain on his face.

"Er …" Remus said and looked to Harry.

"Yes, why is _Harry_ forced to go, while this lot gets to have a nice day in the village?" Harry indicated to his sister and the three young Blacks, while pinning his mother, Mayra, and Remus with pointed looks in turn. If it weren't for them, his mother specifically, he wouldn't be going to the meeting at all.

"We're not having this discussion again," Lily said briskly to Harry and turned back to Bethany. "Be safe," she said, embracing her daughter and kissing her forehead. "And don't –"

"– spend too much in one place," Bethany finished for her mother, as she returned the embrace.

This prompted good-byes to be exchanged all around, much to Bethany and the Black children's discontentment. Never had they been left entirely alone before and Harry could see his sister's worry beneath her attitude. If he thought that it would help, he would have attempt to reassure her that they'd be just fine. The Garlic Festival would have them so busy that they'd hardly recognize the hours slipping by. As things were between them, however, he sincerely doubted she cared for his opinion.

With one last warning to the Black children to 'listen to Bethany and be good', Harry was herded out to the front garden by his parents, Sirius, Mayra, and Remus. Bethany scowled after them and shut the front door behind them with a resound snap.

"This is a bloody awful idea," Harry said, in one last effort to get his mother to release him from attending the Order meeting.

"Language." Lily threated her son to a reprimanding glare, as her husband pulled out the portkey Alastor had supplied their party with earlier in the morning, as the wards around Oakmere Manor were on full alert and only authorized portkeys were able to get through.

"But this _really_ is a bloody awful idea," Sirius agreed wholeheartedly with his godson, giving Harry a sympathetic and somewhat worried look.

James's own concern for his son showed only in his eyes, as they rested upon Harry. He said nothing, though, obliviously remembering the conversation they had had after breakfast that morning all too clearly. He held out the portkey, a line of knotted rope.

Harry hesitated. He'd thought about his position on joining the Order all throughout breakfast and had come to the conclusion that it was a terrible, truly terrible, absolutely horrible idea. He had had every intention of turning down the invitation extended to him. That is, until his mother, supported by Mayra and Remus, had declared a conflicting view on the matter and had explained in excruciating detail why he should join the Order not a second after he had informed them of his desire to keep distance between him and the Order.

As Harry hadn't been about to explain to his mother, Mayra, and Remus about the other world – not because his father and godfather had made him promise not to, but because he hadn't wanted to tempt fate and open _that_ can of worms after the morning he'd already had and still preferred that Mayra and Remus knew nothing about it – he had found himself being shanghaied by illogical logic that was only logical when one didn't factor in the fact that he had a plethora of experience in warfare that had shaped and changed him in ways that they had yet to understand.

Harry envisioned a cell in Azkaban with his name on it, as he stared contritely at the proffer portkey, which would bring him in perpetual close contact with Albus Dumbledore. _Such a bad idea._

"Harry," Lily said and cast a meaningful glance at the portkey.

All the adults had a hold of the rope. They were waiting on him.

"I'm so going to regret this," Harry murmured more to himself than anyone else and took hold of the portkey as well.

_'A united front between us will be better for all of us,'_ Mayra had insisted.

_'It'll be a stabler and safer way for you to procure the information that you obviously feel is necessary for you to know. Dumbledore has spies, Harry, who are more capable of discerning Voldemort's plans than you, your father, and Sirius ever will be,'_ his mother had informed him, while pinning him, his father, and Sirius with disapproving looks. _'I'd rather you be in the Order than off gallivanting about the night without any backup, let alone anyone knowing where you are. As I can't keep you from the war,'_ here she had glared at James, _'then I insist you compromise with me on this.'_

_'Going against Dumbledore –' 'I'm not –' 'Fine, refusing to join the Order when you've no intentions of staying out of the war or aligning yourself with the Ministry either … It'll look bad, Harry, like you're –' 'I'm not!' 'We, your family, know this and will trust this, but what will others think? For most people, having to worry about two warring faction will be bad enough, the possibility of a third … Harry, the Peverell name does not favor you on this,'_ Remus had pointed out to him with brutal honesty and his father and godfather had begrudgingly agreed with the tawny haired man.

Harry had to admit that even he could see sense in Remus's words. People would and already did assume that he had stepped forward and reclaimed the Honour of Peverell for a reason. 'If not to take back his family's legacy and position, then why else?' would be the skeptical question on every person's mind, should he raise an army of his own with no alliance established between him and Dumbledore or him and the Ministry, even if he stated his intentions of standing against Voldemort and his Death Eaters in simple, unmistakable English.

Harry had of course argued vehemently against all that they had said, but the three had been steadfast in their positions and were ill-equipped to understand his reservation for joining the Order, as he had made it quite plain from the start that he had every intention of being an active participant in the war and his father and godfather had back him fully, which had been a minor argument in and of itself, if only for the sake of someone protesting a fourteen year old – emancipated and the Baron of the Peak he may be – joining the war effort. In the end, his mother had demanded that he give her one good reason why he shouldn't join the Order, a legitimate reason that wasn't contrived bollocks or a half-truth at best. When he'd remained silent under the force of her glare – her eyes showing just how hurt, upset, and visibly fearful for him she was – she had turned to his father and godfather for answers, which they had given none.

_'You're joining, Harold James,'_ she had said in a manner that suggested she would accept nothing less from him. _'If you love and respect me as your mother, you will do this for me.'_

The discussion had ended then and there with Mayra and Remus in full support of Lily's resolve and James, Sirius, and Harry wary of the consequences that would surely come from Harry working closely with Dumbledore and the Order. No one had doubt what his final decision would be.

The jerk of the portkey pulling at his navel and the world turning to spinning colors around him jolted Harry from his reveries and cemented the finality of his choice, which his mother had made no choice at all. _Already regretting this,_ he thought, as a queasy sensation accompanied the pull of the portkey. Between taking a portkey or the floo, he'd pick the floo every time and _that_ was saying something, considering he despised the floo network with every bone of his body.

The entrance hall of Oakmere Manor was noisy. That was the first thing that Harry registered, as he touched down upon the familiar marble floor of a light cream color and felt the sun's rays warm the back of his neck, as they poured in through the clerestory windows that vaulted the entrance hall to a full two stories, the full height of the 16th century manor. The noise died down swiftly, as many eyes came to rest upon the newly arrived party.

There was an awkward, tense sort of silence, where the circumstance of the new arrivals' presence was obvious, yet uncertainty, distrust, doubt, and surprise afflicted the room.

"My lords, my lady," Frank greeted Harry, Sirius, and Mayra respectfully, as he stepped forward from where he'd been in conversation with Elphias Doge, whose silver hair was as thin and his belly just as portly as ever. He bowed to his fellow nobles in the manner of his role as their host and friend. "James, Lily, Remus." He acknowledge each in turn with a welcoming smile and a tilt of his head. "The meeting will be in the dining hall. Please, make yourselves comfortable."

As if Frank's words had not been directed merely at the group of six to arrive most recently, but at the hall as a whole, a consensus swept through the present Order of the Phoenix members and those who had previously refrained from moving from the entrance hall in order to greet old friends and speculate on why the Order had been recalled moved towards the dining hall at last.

Harry hung back. Once the entrance hall was mostly empty, he made his way over to Frank, who had not move from his place beside the right stairs – no doubt waiting for the last of their number to arrive. The blond man didn't seem at all surprised that he had approached him.

"I said nothing," Frank said seriously in a low undertone, meeting Harry's gaze with open honesty that besought Harry to believe him.

What the man had said nothing about Harry needed not ask. "I know," Harry said, having been confident in Frank's discretion and undoubting of it to the very moment. "I merely wished to inquire after Neville. I would have … earlier, but … well, I –"

"– had more pressing issues on your mind," Frank supplied with a knowing look.

Harry nodded.

"He's shook up." Frank released a weary sigh. "He was supposed to have Dean, Seamus, and Ron over yesterday, but … we had to cancel."

"He's refusing to leave the greenhouse, isn't he?" Harry held back a sigh of his own. _So typically Neville,_ he thought with exasperation and affection. Plants, in both worlds, had always been his friend's safe haven.

"Alice barely got him to go up to bed last night." Frank grimaced.

The gestured was telling. The mystery of why Frank had been drinking his way through a decanter of Firewhisky with his godfather at two o'clock in the morning no longer seemed like such a mystery to Harry. Knowing exactly what the sort of trauma Neville had experienced could do to kid, he felt sympathy for his friend.

"Do you think he'd mind, if I dropped in on him after the meeting?" Harry asked with the barest hint of uncertainty, not sure if Neville would want to see him after watching him kill a woman.

"I'd be grateful, if you did," Frank said with sincerity. "Alice too. Whether he'd mind or not, I haven't a clue."

Harry raised an eyebrow at Frank, having expected that the father would have known his son's state of mind.

Frank shifted uncomfortably. "Dumbledore will be here soon. You best head in and get seated."

Harry regarded Frank a second longer, before turning away from the man and making for the open, intricately carved double doors that led to the dining hall. As he stepped from the entrance hall and into the dining hall, he felt eyes settle upon him, if only surreptitiously. Upon sweeping his gaze up the dinning table that was made of polished oak and looked as if it could easily seat twenty or more people, he located his parents, Sirius, Mayra, and Remus seated roughly about the middle of the table.

With a purposeful stride, Harry made his way around the end of the table, passing behind Emmeline Vance and Dedalus Diggle's chairs, to the empty seat between his father and godfather and directly across from his mother, who was sitting between Mayra and Remus. The eyes followed his every move. He maintained an unperturbed countenance.

"How's Neville?" James asked quietly, as Harry claimed the seat they'd reserved for him.

With the silence of the room, his father lowering his voice was about as effective at keeping their conversation private as trying to knock a troll out with a feather pillow. Harry gave his father a look that communicated as much. "At the moment … obsessively attempting to cultivate a Venomous Snare, I believe."

"A what?" Remus asked, giving Harry a look that suggested he quiet possibly didn't want know.

The sound of a group of persons arriving by portkey out in the entrance hall saved Harry from having to supply an answer. Sitting forward in his seat and looking back towards the entrance hall, Harry saw Frank greet Dumbledore and two others. It wasn't the wizen wizard or the stern witch in emerald robes beside Dumbledore who drew and held his attention.

"What the hell is he doing here?" Sirius growled.

"The same thing we are, I'd imagine," Lily said sharply with a note of warning.

"I wouldn't be so certain of that," Harry refuted darkly, his eyes locked on the greasy hair, black eyes, and overly large, hooked nose of a man that he quite possibly hated more than he hated Nikita Kalinouski, hated nearly as much as he hated Voldemort. The urge to strike down Severus Snape right where the bastard stood burned his veins, tensed his muscles, and settled his mind set into that of a killer as naturally as taking his next breath.

_I ought to kill him purely on principle,_ Harry thought insidiously, not really caring if this world's Snape had actually turned sides or not. Judging from his memories of his Potions classes with the man, Snape was just as much of a miserable, unbearable fuck as he'd always been. He'd be dumbfounded, if Snape was truly loyal to Dumbledore _._ In the other world, Dumbledore had had his mother's death to hold over Snape. In this world, his mother was alive, but she remained cold to him. Harry was highly inclined to believe that Dumbledore's hold over Snape was even shakier in this world than in the other.

A painful kick to his shin, snapped Harry out of his homicidal contemplations. A jaw clenched grimace saved him from exclaiming his pain. As he met his mother's narrowed eyes across the table, reality of his surroundings came back to him. He leaned back in his chair and composed a look of indifference upon his face. Judging from his father and Sirius's mirrored actions, he hadn't been the only one to receive a jarring kick beneath the table.

As Dumbledore led the procession of McGonagall, Snape, and Frank into the dining hall, Harry made it a point to avoid looking at Snape. In fact, he focused his gaze out the window behind his mother and refused to let it waver, even as Dumbledore, Snape, McGonagall, and Frank passed before him. The sky, he noted, was a fathomless blue, extending over Oakmere Manor, touching upon the oak blanketed hills in the distance, and reflecting across the surface of the small lake that he remembered many of his summer days in years past being spent beside or within. The teenage longing to be outside, instead of couped up inside, hit him with force and made him all the more unwilling to sit through a meeting that he hadn't even wanted to attend.

"Good afternoon," Dumbledore's voice drifted down the table from where he had claimed the head of the table. He sounded tired and his greeting was appropriately grave. "Thank you all for coming on such short notice. I know many of you had to cancel your plans for the day." He paused.

Feeling the heavy weight of Dumbledore's eyes upon him, Harry tore his gaze away from the picturesque scene outside the window and looked to the head of the table.

"I must give my profoundest apologies to you, Lord Peverell, for having disrupted your birthday of all days," Dumbledore said with wholehearted sincerity, as his and Harry's eyes connected. "I'm grateful that you and your family," his gaze moved from Harry to James, across the table to Remus, Lily, and Mayra, and back around to Sirius, before resettling on Harry, "agreed to accept the invitations extended to you, despite the day and our past differences."

Harry nodded stiffly in acknowledgement and acceptance of the apology, while wondering just when he had lost track of time so badly that he hadn't even realized that today was his birthday.

"Now," Dumbledore continued with a grim air, seeming to realize that a nod was all he was going to get from Harry for the time being, "to get right at the heart of matter, I bear the regrettable burden of informing you that Lord Voldemort is active once more."

At the outbursts, gasps, and startled looks of their fellow meeting attendees, excluding Frank, Alice, and Mad-Eye, it became apparent to Harry and the five adults surrounding him that his mother and Mayra had to have been the only ones that Mad-Eye had told about Lord Voldemort being active.

"Are you certain, Albus?" Sturgis Podmore asked from the other side of Mayra.

"Quite," Dumbledore said, his aged features solemn. "I would not have called you all here, if I were not. I have long suspected that Voldemort did not die thirteen years ago, as many of you know. This morning I received indisputable proof that he is … not alive necessarily, I do not believe … but he is gathering his forces in preparation of his full revival. The magics he is using to do this, I cannot say." He frowned, looking perplexed and deeply concerned. "We can only hope to prepare ourselves and gather our own forces before he succeeds."


	26. Allies and Enemies

A heavy silence followed Dumbledore's declaration, as the existing distrust amongst the occupants of the room sharpened and took on implications not felt or voiced in nearly thirteen years. The fact that more Death Eaters had walked free in the aftermath of the war than had been sentenced to Azkaban wasn't news, but the notion that these free Death Eaters had a master to rally behind once more had an unsettling quality the likes of which left old suspicions of one's fellows' true allegiance to manifest poignantly in a gut wrenching, fear encompassing manner.

Harry could feel the accusations directed at him, his father, and his godfather and at his mother, Mayra, and Remus by association. While the _Daily Prophet_ hadn't embellished the reports of what had happened at Neville's Birthday Ball, they had reported the events of the evening most accurately. It was no secret that he, his father, his mother, Bethany, and Sirius had been detained by the DMLE under suspicion of having had a hand in organizing and/or of having preexisting knowledge of the attack. The very public criminal cases that his father and godfather had faced six years ago had also resurfaced in the _Prophet_ under the guise of providing foundation for the DMLE's actions, along with a report of his, his father, and his godfather's 'trip to the continent' at the beginning of the month.

James exhaled audibly, earning his son's attention. Harry took in the resigned, determined look on his father's face and understood what the man was about to do, before his father even pushed away from the table and made to stand.

"James?" Dumbledore inquired.

"I want the record set straight, here and now," James said, standing tall and proud. His gaze met Dumbledore's questioning one, his hazel eyes hard and resolute. With deft fingers, he slipped the button of his left cuff free and began rolling back the light cotton sleeve, revealing smooth, lightly tanned skin with each fold of the fabric.

With baited breath, eyes were glue to James's forearm, as more and more skin was reveal – even those who his father had maintained a friendly relationship with, Harry noted with a touch of disappointment and a whole lot of frustration on his father's behalf. The intensity of his glare made Kingsley look down at the table with a trace of shame and an apology showing on the man's face.

Once his forearm was completely bare for all to see and the Dark Mark was no where to be found, James raised his arm up, as if presenting if for display, and stepped around his chair. Steady, confident movements carried him to the head of the table. When he presented his forearm for Dumbledore's examination, the ancient wizard looked up at James with remorse coupled with understanding.

"You've nothing to prove," Dumbledore said softly.

"I do." James's determination remained steadfast.

Dumbledore regarded James for a moment longer, before taking his wand from the breast pocket of his robes. In a show that was clearly meant for the attentive audience rather than seeking confirmation of James's allegiance for himself, he began with _finite incantatem_ and progressed to more powerful and lesser known revealing and detection spells. The last three spells he cast, Harry didn't recognized, but judging from his father's pain filled grimace, they were far from pleasant.

"Interesting," Dumbledore murmured, as his last spell finished and revealed nothing more than unmarked flesh. He looked up at James briefly, before his gaze drifted down the table and locked on Harry. The curiosity in his eyes was naked, almost radiant. "Interesting, indeed."

"Your verdict, Albus?" James asked gruffly, drawing Dumbledore's attention back to him.

"You, James Potter, do not bear, neither have you ever bore Voldemort's mark," Dumbledore declared assuredly, as he pocketed his wand.

Mad-Eye grunted with distaste from his place at Dumbledore's right, looking far from placated. "It's been long assumed that he doesn't mark them all." With both his magical eye and his nonmagical eye, he surveyed James suspiciously. His wand hand twitched, as if he wished to draw on the man before him. "Your not being marked, Potter, means nothing as far as I'm concerned. You, Black, and that boy of yours would already have Veritaserum down your throats, if I had my way about it – Lupin, as well, for good measure."

"Alastor." Dumbledore frowned reprovingly at his colleague, the silver whiskers of his beard crinkling just noticeably with the down turn of his lips and his eyes narrowing behind his half-moon spectacles.

"They were thick as thieves back in the day, Albus." Mad-Eye growled, as if that was all the evidence that he needed to ascertain his former allies' guilt. He looked to Dumbledore with his good eye, while his magical eye swept from James to Sirius and swiveled around to Remus. "We've already got proof that one of them serves the bastard, yet you invite the lot here, attempt to make nice with the scoundrels –"

"A single man's guilt does not condemn three others, neither does it reflect upon a young man who is only just beginning his journey in this world." The look on Dumbledore's face – imperious and obdurate in every sense of the word – told Harry and everyone else in the room that the two men had already had this particular disagreement. Looking away from Mad-Eye, Dumbledore addressed the room as a whole. "Let there be no further misunderstanding."

Dumbledore stood from his seat and rested a gnarled hand on James's shoulder, who did not shrug it off, yet stood rigid under its weight. "Many of you sit here wondering, if it was James, Lord Black, or perhaps even Remus who sold out Fabian and Gideon, gave Voldemort the McKinnons' location, or possibly lured Dorcas to her death."

A pregnant pause followed these words. Harry could feel their truth in the way Diggle shifted uncomfortably in his seat on the other side of Sirius, the way Sturgis glared up at the confirming hand on his father's shoulder, and the way McGonagall sat stiff-back in her chair and refused to look at any of them.

"It was not," Dumbledore said with self-possessed knowledge. As the finality of his ruling resonated throughout the room, he looked to James and then down the table to Sirius. He sighed with the weight of immense regret. "I have given hand to ruining the reputations of good men, while lofting the reputation of the one truly responsible. James, if you would please return to your seat, there is something that everyone needs to see."

James stepped out from under Dumbledore's hand and made his way back down the table without a word. He rolled down his left sleeve and refastened the cuff as he did so. Upon resettling himself in his chair between Kingsley Shacklebolt and Harry, he treated Dumbledore to a peculiar look, as if he wasn't certain about trusting the elder man's display of remorse.

"Elphias." Dumbledore motioned to his old friend and resettled in own his chair.

"Oh, yes … right," Elphias said and stood with a slight wheeze from his place beside Sturgis. He rummaged in the pockets of his robes for an extended moment, before making a sound of triumph and pulling a fist sized wooden cube free from the mass of adorned fabric. Upon setting the cube on the table, he resized it to be a foot wide by a foot tall by a foot in depth. Another flick of his wand and a stream of muttered words vanished the wood, leaving an odd brass and silver instrument where the cube had been.

It took Harry a moment to recognize the contraption for what it was. The protruding eye glass and brass cone that formed the projector head was a dead give away to its purpose. The memory crystal chamber – or rather memory orb chamber, if he had the era of the thing's inception calculated correctly – was a bit more difficult to discern, as it was an ancient construct of the modern and far more compact memory crystal chamber used by Omnioculars, magical cameras, and the newest monitoring devices employed by St. Mungo's and the Ministry of Magic.

Elphias searched his pockets once more. This time, when he voiced his success, he held a familiar glass crystal that was no bigger than the pad of his pinky finger and glowed with a soft silver hue. Without preamble, he dropped the crystal over the opening of the silver, spherical chamber that was rather crude in design in comparison to its modern counterpart.

For a long moment, nothing happened, and Elphias frowned. Then, a whizzing emitted from the chamber and the chamber began to spin and glow with the memory crystal's radiance.

Elphias looked upon the antique projector with absolute delight. Eagerly and with an almost childlike enthusiasm that Harry had never witnessed from the man, he tapped his wand to the projector head and murmured a simple " _Project!_ " under his breath.

There was a heartbeat where the instrument only whizzed and its chamber spun with the silver light of the memory crystal. Then, in a flash of the eye glass and an outpouring of magic, the scene that had haunted Harry's morning materialized beyond the far end of the table, halfway between the oak surface and the close doors that led back to the entrance hall. For all appearances the lone window of Riddle Manor and what laid beyond, within the manor, was as real within the dining hall as the hall's occupants and the chairs they sat upon.

With his eyes transfixed on the face of the wiry framed, Drakeweed smoking man that he still did not have a name for, but had every intention of identifying, Harry barely registered the dining hall growing dark around him, as the teal and cream curtains blocked out the sunlight streaming in through the windows lining the hall and the gas lamps mounted along the walls lit with a dim glow of their own accord.

The recording played out in silence.

Harry observed the playback with scrutiny, taking in everything that he hadn't consciously acknowledged that morning. Following the succinct recording of the wiry framed, Drakeweed smoking man were the focused and purpose based recordings of the two men of similar appearances who his father had referenced as the Sokal brothers. The craggy looking witch had been last of the four he had recorded for later identification.

As the scene zoomed out to take in the entirety of the window, Harry took note of just how many chairs at the table had remained empty. Even with Lucius Malfoy's appearance, there had been over a half-dozen unoccupied seats. The implications, to him, were perfectly clear. Voldemort had been expecting a larger number than the one that they had witnessed.

With Pettigrew entering the scene, Harry could feel his father and godfather's lingering emotions at discovering the rat alive, as both went positively rigid beside him. The startled gasps and remarks of recognition from the rest of the Order cued him to give his own 'surprised' response, which he restrained to a mere widening of his eyes and a sharp intake of breath.

The recording froze with the final image of a twenty year old Tom Riddle standing framed in the window. The gold chain of the Locket of Salazar Slytherin peaking out from the collar of Voldemort's robes drew Harry's gaze just as it had that morning. Between the Chalice of Helga Hufflepuff and the Locket, he wasn't certain which horcrux existed to be a greater pain in his ass.

 _Curse it all,_ Harry growled mentally. His gut twisted, once more, with the same sickening feeling born of fear and anxiety that had tormented him most of the morning. He could feel his grasp on the situation slipping tenuously from his control, presently and persistently. Every alteration to events, every miscalculation he had already made, while working from incorrect assumptions, and every gain Voldemort had attained towards his goals in the last few years, while operating entirely unopposed, it had all added up and was quickly making his future knowledge from the other world all the more useless. The thought that he'd be able to nab an easy victory in this world had never crossed his mind, but now it seemed that the task he had set him self was becoming ever more insurmountable.

 _Preserve as much innocent life as is possible. That is all I can do,_ Harry consoled himself, while Occluding against his treacherous thoughts. Even if Britain suffered heavy losses, it would be a marked improvement over the entirety of Europe being bathed in blood.

"I am sure that many of you do not recognize him in this form," Dumbledore's voice drifted down the table, capturing the group's attention. "The man you see before you is Tom Riddle, or Tom Riddle as I remember him 50 years ago. This was Voldemort in his infancy. I cannot speak with certainty, but I do not believe that he has managed anything greater than this physical manifestation to date. Observe that should you strike him, as he is, with a Cutting or Piercing Hex, he would not bleed a single drop of blood. This is no man of flesh that you see. He would have us all believe that he is something more. Yet, in his current state, he is weak and much of his energy is going into maintaining his manifestation, if I've assessed the situation correctly."

"How, Albus?" Alice asked with unrestrained worry and fear in her voice. Upon looking to his friend's mother, who sat up and across the table from him, Harry saw the same emotions displayed plain on her round face. "How can he be doing it?"

Dumbledore steeped his fingers together and tapped them to his lips pensively. He sat back in his chair, looking old and as deeply disturbed as the circumstances called for. "I cannot say. As I said, I do not know the magics involved in something like this. I have study many magics in my life time, but the Dark Art of Necromancy I've dared not dabble in. There is too much temptation there, far too much for any man. I have only concluded as much as I have from the knowledge that his body had been wholly destroyed thirteen years ago and, though it is barely noticeable, his current form flickers and shifts with its instability – watch closely."

Elphias backed up the play back to just before Voldemort entered the scene.

With his eyes trained intently on the projected window, Harry watched Voldemort come to stand in front of the window for a third time. This time, as he was specifically looking for it, he saw it. It was nothing more than a blink, but the flicker in Voldemort's manifestation couldn't be denied. For that almost indistinguishable moment, his form had shift back to the black, smoke-like wraith that Harry remembered confronting in his first year at Hogwarts in the other world.

 _He's manifesting his free essence,_ Harry realized with a jolt. He felt the blood drain from his face and his stomach jolt violently in a knee-jerk reaction, upon a second, far worse realization hitting him. If Voldemort wasn't possessing the Locket's manifestation, but was instead tapping into the Locket's soul piece to manifest independently – effectively using the horcrux as an anchor and power reserve to assist him in forming and maintaining a corporeal form – he would need to strengthen himself continually over time and with exertion with an outside source of life energy.

Harry felt indecision war within him. _How many lives have already fed the monster and how many more will be consumed, before the end of next June?_

As Harry looked to those around him, his eyes linger on the strained faces of his father, his mother, his godfather, Mayra, and Remus, on Frank and Alice, on Kingsley and McGonagall, before settling on Dumbledore. He could not help but wonder, if one or more of their number would meet the gruesome fate of having their life essence ripped from their body for the sole purpose of being absorbed and used by Voldemort to wreak havoc on their world, until they were spent to nothing and ceased to exist on both the mortal and immortal plains.

The thought tore at Harry to the depths of his own soul with just how wrong and twisted such a thing was. He felt bile attempt to climb its way up his throat. He shut his eyes to the queasy, head spinning sensation and sat straight in his chair, utilizing all of his will to abate the tide of disgust and latch onto the fury burning within him. When he opened his eyes, he found himself to be Dumbledore's focus with many other sets of eyes trained upon him.

Harry composed himself, bring forth an unperturbed look about his countenance the best he could, and held his silence.

Dumbledore surveyed him with calculating eyes in return, his gaze pressing upon and penetrating Harry with such intensity it very nearly stilled Harry's breaths.

"Who were the others present, outside of the obvious?" Remus asked, drawing a majority of the Order's attention to him, as he looked to Dumbledore. "Do you know?"

"Alas, I'm as woefully ignorant as you are on this as well," Dumbledore said and scanned his gaze up and down the table, looking to each Order member for any signs of recognition.

Harry could feel his father's eyes upon him and gave the subtlest nodded.

James cleared his throat and the Order's attention pivoted upon him almost instantly. "I can't name them all, but I have a fairly good idea of who four of them are and can say with near certainty that all are foreign."

"Make some friends while you were on the continent, eh, Potter?" Mad-Eye gritted his teeth with tell-tale restraint.

James scoffed. "Hardly, seeing as my son was my singular priority. No, my information comes straight from the Ministry. I had been contemplating a transfer to the Hit Wizards – for obvious reasons – and Arcadio allowed me to peruse a couple of their active investigation as incentive."

Without giving time for anyone to comment, James motioned for Elphias to back-up the playback. "Both of the cases I looked were linked by the players involved, yet were entirely different in nature." James indicated for Elphias to pause the playback and stood.

The scene, prior to Voldemort having stepped into the frame, hovered like a still framed photograph that was much more life-like than any Muggle could ever dream of.

"Meet Bazyli and Serafin Sokal," James directed attention to the two gray eyed men who were clearly relation of some kind, "the eldest sons of Alexsy Sokal, the current Dark Arts Master at Durmstrang, and Jolanta Sokal, a Charms Master and Polish Certified Researcher of Experimental Spells. The brothers rap sheets read similar to the way the Lestranges and Dovoloh's do minus the accounts of treason and the convicted use of the Unforgivables: arson, assault, racketeering, smuggling, torture, vandalism, Muggle baiting, Muggle hunting, and they've been brought in for questioning concerning no less than a dozen murders, over half of which are confirmed assassination hits and three of which have involved prominent political figures on the international scene. Yet, for the many crimes that the brothers can be linked to, they've never been convicted, let alone tried in a court. All evidence has been circumstantial at best and they've a damn good solicitor, Tallak Wolff."

James proceeded to draw attention to the dark haired, dark skinned aristocrat across the table from the brothers. "Nicolau Dantès is an entirely different type of criminal. He has never seen the inside of a cell as far as official channels can confirm. He does, however, have a long recorded history of being a person of interest in multiple confirmed assassination hits across Europe. In essence, wherever he goes, death follows. Unlike the Sokal Brothers, his style is subtle to the point that the cause of death is rarely apparent, upon the initial examination of the body. He works clean and has yet to leave even the barest of evidence proving his involvement in any sort of crime."

"And this man," James turned the Order's attention to the blond haired, middle aged father sitting opposite Kalinouski, "Olavi Lahti, serves as the strongest connection between the three. Lahti is a contract holder of various illicit business ventures and is suspected of having fielded numerous kill orders, all transactions of said nature he covers up scrupulously with a legal operation as a specialty herbologist. If rumors are to be believe, he is a master of espionage and isn't afraid to get his hands dirty."

 _The apple doesn't fall far from the tree,_ Harry thought darkly, his eyes finding Elina beside her father.

"Thank you, James," Dumbledore said gravely, as James resumed his seat. "That was most informative. I suppose it is not too much of a stretch to assume that this Dantès might have very well had a hand in the late Lord Burke's death."

"With all do respect, sir, I sincerely doubt it," Harry said and met Dumbledore's inquiring gaze head on. "The late Lord Burke's death was high profile, yet the only one who has truly gained anything from it is the current Lord Burke. The Wizengamot was a little over a week from recess at the time, meaning that the Ministry budget for autumn was the main topic of discussion and all controversial topics had already been ruled upon or pushed to be discussed and voted upon in September. So there was little to no motive for disrupting the House of Burke's vote. Voldemort gains little from Lachlan taking over for Ainslie, as well, as the son retains the values of the father. And with the professional that Dantès for all appearances is, I sincerely doubt he would have considered the risks of the hit worth it, especial since the obvious motive behind the kill order would have been based on a family dispute. He would have had to pull off the hit in perhaps one of the most secure building in all of Britain right under your very own nose. It is more likely that the late Lord Burke's death was nothing more than a matter of happenstantial timing. Looking any further into it would be a waste of resources and end with a cold trail to nowhere, as all current investigations into the matter have proved."

 _And there's the key facts that Voldemort and his cohorts only arrived in Britain a few weeks ago by my estimate and Burke Sr. bit it around the same time in the other world without Voldemort making it known to his followers that he was making a second play at power,_ Harry added mentally, while not breaking eye contact with Dumbledore. In the other world, the greatest waste of resources that the Order of the Phoenix had experienced had been their investing of manpower into chasing down pointless leads and executing ventures that were predestine to failure. Hagrid and Madam Maxime's trek to the giants the summer after Voldemort had returned had been just the beginning of a long series of blunders that had contributed absolutely nothing to the war, some of which had turned out to be quite costly. If he could put an end to the 'guarding the Prophecy' nonsense as well, he would.

"While I loath to agree with the boy, he makes an excellent argument." Mad-Eye grumbled with dissatisfaction. "If this Dantès works as clean as Potter claims, the risks of the hit would have hardly appealed to a man of his caliber and propensity to act with discretion. Besides, I thought it was confirmed that Burke died from a standard heart attack with no poisons or cursed magic present in his system."

"Upon the initial exam, but we weren't granted the right to do a full autopsy. I can run the theory through official channels, possibly pass our file on the late Lord Burke's death to Arcadio," Kingsley offered, his dark gaze meeting Dumbledore's contemplative one, yet his position was clearly in support of the Order keeping clear of the investigation.

"Thank you, Kingsley." Dumbledore nodded his assent to the Auror and acknowledged Mad-Eye's support of Harry's argument with the smallest of gestures that showed he recognized their opposition as being valid. He swept his eyes down the table. "Does anyone else have any insight to offer? Concerning the late Lord Burke's death or the yet to be identified persons?" He motioned to the hovering still-frame just beyond end of the table opposite him, drawing everyone's attention back to cause of their gathering.

Harry could feel Frank boring holes in the side of his skull with the intensity that the man was staring at him, yet he refrained from adding his own knowledge to his father's already presented knowledge of the enemy. Unlike his father, he didn't have any way to explain away his knowledge that wouldn't be immediately suspicious and he'd rather save the cross-examination for a later date. It was more than apparent that he already had Dumbledore's interests.

As Dumbledore moved their meeting forward and the Order began making plans to investigate their unknown opposition and compile information on their known opposition, as well as to begin recruitment and spreading word on the streets, Harry settled back in his chair distinctly pleased. There was a brief mention of informing the Minister of Voldemort's impending return, but the skeptical comments from Elphias and Sirius concerning Fudge's trustworthiness and ability to handle such information without concrete proof that was blatant and could be shoved in the Minister's face put an immediate hold on said plans. If Harry wasn't mistaken, both men had been surprised to find common ground with one another and looked as if a reassessment of their current relationship was in order.

"Sir, our history with the giants is perfectly clear," Harry cut in, when Dumbledore informed them that he planned to send Hagrid and a volunteer as an envoy to the clans, while in the same breath asking Remus if he would be willing to reach out to the werewolves.

"That may be, my lord," Dumbledore said calmly and with a hint of dismissal, "There is, nonetheless, hope for an amiable future between our races. We must offer –"

"You mistake delusions for reality, sir," Harry refuted harshly, leaning forward in his chair and narrowing his eyes at the headmaster. "World peace, equality between the races, love unmatched and all powerful; it's ideological and, therefore, infeasible. We are but mortal beings with our past informing our future and forming our present opinions in a continuous, unbreakable chain of events. Our base nature and the will of the gods guides us from the very depths of our subconscious. Our ability of independent complex thought predictably throws us into conflict. It is the way of life and history has proven time and again that there is no amiable future for us with the giants. We cannot give them what they want and Voldemort has no fear in promising that he will allow them the free reign they so desire, upon his victory. At best, you'll waste Hagrid and the volunteer's time with the expedition. At worst, you will get them killed."

Dumbledore regarded Harry for a long moment with an indecipherable look.

Harry refrained from twitching under the man's focused gazed with a measured amount of difficulty. He got the feeling that the way Dumbledore was looking at him was what Neville had meant about the man staring at him like he was a cross between a Venomous Tentacula and a Devil's Snare.

"Remus," Dumbledore said without coming to any visible conclusion concerning his observations and turned to said werewolf. "I know I ask much, but are willing?"

"Of course, Albus." Remus bowed his head resignedly. "We must help the ones we can. I know of five already who would be at least willing to leave the country in order to avoid the conflict, though I doubt they'd be willing to go further and take a side in the war."

"Thank you, my boy," Dumbledore said, sounding genuine in his gratitude. "You do us all a great service. Now, I do believe I'll hold off on sending an envoy to the giants for the time being. This meeting has ran much longer than I'm sure most of us like. We shall meet again in three days' time to further our discussion and report on any updates we may have."

As people began to push away from the table and give their good-byes, Harry turned to his godfather and leaned in close to the man.

"Snape," Harry instructed softly and to the point, before stepping round his godfather and making for the exit. He didn't doubt that Sirius would understand his meaning.

"Lord Peverell!" Harry heard Dumbledore call after him.

Harry paused and turned back to Dumbledore. "As enlightening as a private chat may be, sir, I have a friend to be checking up on at the current moment. As I understand it, my father has scheduled my third year exams for this coming Friday. Perhaps we could speak then?"

"Nothing would delight me more." Dumbledore treated Harry to a genial smile. "If you would pass on my regards to Neville ..."

"I will tell him that you wish him well, sir." Harry gave a respectful bow of farewell, before turning on his heal and resuming a direct route out to the Longbottom's greenhouse.


	27. A Friend and a Foe

The Longbottom's greenhouse was a massive, domed outbuilding with a structure of magically preserved iron that was as black and unblemished as the day the framework for the greenhouse had been erected and was enclosed by majestically frosted glass, which if one examined closely enough, one would see that the frost was made up of thousands upon thousands of moving, almost life-like runes that had been weaved together to create a multi-climate environment within the glass dome that enabled a grouping of Arctic Ice Flowers to be cultivated but a hundred paces from a patch of Sahara Desert Viper Pods with every plant from every possible climate grown in between.  
  
Walking the narrow dirt paths, Harry applied warming and cooling charms upon his person accordingly, while side stepping several plants that he didn't know the name of and some that he did know by name, as they reached out to him, attracted to the magic that radiated from his person. He had a half a mind to call out for Neville, but decided against doing so, and instead carefully navigated the green jungle with its sporadic mix of color that filled the greenhouse around him, while marveling at what Neville was able to do with a proper greenhouse and the years necessary to cultivate such a space.  
  
As he rounded a tropical bush filled with screeching seedlings, after several minutes of wandering about Neville's haven, Harry found himself in the southernmost portion of the greenhouse, as well as found Neville knees deep in a Capsus Lily infested pond and skimming a florescent algae from the water's surface with a cloth net and a floating collection bucket bobbing in the water off to his right.  
  
Harry smiled at the sight of his friend working with the plant life in his familiar, gentle way. He ignored the hot humidity clinging to his skin and stifling his breaths in this particular portion of the greenhouse, despite the cooling charm that prevented his core temperature from heating to dangerous levels, and settled himself quietly on a boulder at the water's edge and waited patiently for Neville to acknowledge him.  
  
Several minutes passed in silence between the two. Only the screeching seedlings, which sounded more and more like they were attempting to sing, and the soft disturbances in the water, as Neville dipped his net into the pool and withdrew it to plunk the algae in the collection bucket, prevented the minutes from passing in complete silence. The blond boy's only reaction to Harry's presence had been a slight stiffening of his posture, otherwise he hadn't and didn't appear willing to as much as looked at Harry or give any other inclination that he was aware that Harry occupied the greenhouse with him.  
  
In silent rebuttal to Neville's impassive dismissal, which he knew it to be, Harry adjusted himself to settle more comfortably on his perched seat in a pointed manner – confirming what Neville no doubt already knew: that he wasn't about to leave without being told directly.  
  
Neville sighed resignedly.  
  
Several more minutes passed, but this time, Harry knew that his friend was using the time to compose his thoughts, rather than hoping beyond hope that he'd simply leave and let things be between them.  
  
“You're not Harry,” Neville said softly after a time, while keeping his attention focused upon collecting the florescent algae. “I know my friend and you're not him.”  
  
“I'm no longer the boy you knew.” Harry let a hint of an apology enter his voice. Though Neville kept his back to him, he plainly heard the accusation in the boy's voice. “Nonetheless, I am the son of James and Lily Potter, the one and only brother of Bethany Potter, and the godson of Sirius Black. I am willing to swear to this truth upon my life's blood, if you require proof of my words.”  
  
Neville paused in his actions. “You said … that night … that we'd talk later –”  
  
“This is later,” Harry affirmed.  
  
Neville turned ever so slightly to look back at Harry, yet kept his gaze just to the right of the dark haired teen, not meeting Harry's gaze or showing any willingness to do so.  
  
“I'm prepared to tell you a truth that is as close to the complete truth as anyone is ever going to get. You deserve to know who I am and what has happened to the friend you knew,” Harry said with nothing but honesty, while willing himself not to feel disappointment or insulted by the obvious distrust and the undercurrent of fear Neville displayed towards him, as he understood, on an intellectual level, his friend's reaction. “When I finish, I hope that you'll find it in your heart to continue to regard me as a friend, if not as the friend you've had all these years, then as a new one.”  
  
It took a moment, but Neville nodded at last, deposited his net in the collection bucket, and moved towards the water's edge.  
  
Harry waited for Neville to settle himself on one of the smaller boulders a few paces from him.  
  
“Just so you know, I set privacy wards at the entrance,” Harry informed Neville, whose gaze had moved to staring at the pebbled shore beneath his bare, wet feet. “Understand that I do not wish for anyone to overhear what I'm about to tell you and that you can't tell anyone about what I reveal to you, Neville – not even your mum and dad. This is our secret. Okay?”  
  
After taking a few seconds to consider the situation, Neville nodded somewhat hesitantly – yet, his eyes showed resolve.  
  
“You know about the nightmares and what everyone was saying was wrong with me,” Harry began, “so I won't rehash it. Know that every bit of it is the truth – not my diagnosis, but the nightmares and all the daytime aftereffects that came with them. I wasn't acting. It most definitely wasn't fun. I had no understanding of what was happening to me, only the conviction that what I saw at night was real. Still, I supposes my years of suffering have finally paid off, you could say, so I can't complain. If the boy I was could have had a choice in all of this from the start, knowing what I know now, those years would have been endured with pleasure and without a doubt that to live those years as I did was the right thing for me, my family, and our nation.”  
  
“What do you mean?” Neville asked, frowning.  
  
Harry pulled in a slow breath and released it. “My family's history is …”He grimaced. “Well, it is what it is. Our cover as a progressive family of no great origins and living at the epicenter of the Malfoys' district was genius on Ignotus's part, considering all that we had been known for back then. But our cover as the Potters wouldn't have worked as well as it did or for as long as it did, if Ignotus hadn't taken a certain measure to ensure that our life as the Potters would last, permanently if need be.”  
  
Harry watched Neville for the boy's reaction. When his words received nothing but a furrowed brow, he continued with a casual tone, as if he weren't speaking of forbidden magics and centuries old, obscure knowledge. “To do what he knew needed to be done, in order to preserve our bloodline and prevent our descendants from one day revealing themselves through their abilities accidentally, Ignotus sealed a portions of our family's magic within his son and heir to be passed down through the generations. For seven hundred years, my family has not dared to break Ignotus's Seal … not until me.”  
  
“Why?” The question was simple and purely curious and was clearly asking why Harry had broken the Seal, when no one in his family had for the last seven centuries.  
  
“There was an incident, when I was young – a life and death situation, where I thought for certain that I was going to die. I'd been having the nightmares before then, but just a few and they didn't have any true power behind them,” Harry said, easily deviating from the pure truth, to form a mixture of this world and the other world and what he believed had caused him to break through Ignotus's Seal in the other world. “The nightmares were always vague back then and I might have very well grew out of them with time, but then there were those three minutes where I thought I was as good as dead, felt another being threaten my life and render me completely powerless to save myself. I wished desperately to live, to survive the incident whole. I reached for something that day, deep inside me. I didn't know what I was doing, nor did I know not to do it, what I was risking. I shouldn't have been able to do it, not without taking the proper precautions first. There's a reason, after all, that generation after generation haven't risked breaking Ignotus's Seal.  
  
“You see, the only way that Ignotus could make the Seal work the way that he wanted it to, a block on only a portion of our magical ability and not on our magic altogether, a block that would be applied hereditarily and would also pass down and preserve the Peverell's true heritage from father to son, while excluding our hidden heritage from being passed on by the Potter daughters, was to put a portion of himself into the original Seal, ultimately giving up his will, his memories, his magic … his very life.”  
  
Neville had sat quietly, listening intently to Harry and visibly reviewing Harry's words in his mind. With Harry pausing in his tale and clearly expecting some sort of response form him, Neville finally looked up at his friend, while not quite making eye contact. “So, you're him then. Ignotus.”  
  
“No.” Harry smiled. “Soul Magic is a complex branch of study. However, it is accepted as an absolute truth that it is impossible for two souls to coexist in a single body safely for any significant amount of time, even a whole soul and a portion of a soul. Ignotus burned up his soul in stabilizing the longevity of the original Seal, gave his life and all possible future lives he could have had – casting himself from existence – so that his son and all his descendants could have secure and hopefully long and fulfilling lives themselves. I can't be him for he no longer exists, but what I got from the breaking of the Seal is an imprint of all that he ever was.”  
  
“So your nightmares …?” Neville asked, attempting to understand.  
  
Harry nodded, though his nightmares in this world had very little do with him breaking Ignotus's Seal, if any portion at all. “By putting so much – having to put so much of himself into the Seal, the price of breaking the Seal became extremely steep. What I paid was nothing, compared to what I might have paid for breaking it. I've come out of the crucible strong with my sanity intact, for which I am immensely grateful. I got lucky. I only fractured the Seal six years ago and it's been able to breakaway through my nightmares in a slow integration of my family magic and Ignotus's memories. If I had shattered it that day, there's a very good chance that I would have lost my mind on the spot.” And he almost had in the other world, down in Voldemort's dungeons, without a clue as to what he had done or that what had ripped through his mind, body, and soul that day hadn't been the doing of the Death Eaters. After reading Ignotus's work on the Seal but days ago, he now knew better and understood that he'd not drawn on knowledge from one of his previous lives to survive and ascend from Voldemort's dungeons stronger than ever, but had called upon his heritage, preserved and gifted to him by his many times great-grandfather, Ignotus.  
  
“Did your dad know … all this time?” Neville cautiously met Harry's eyes for a brief moment, before looking away again. “He always insisted you weren't sick. Did he know what was happening to you?”  
  
“He had his suspicions, but he didn't know anything for certain and didn't want to risk telling me, in case if my awareness would cause the Seal to break instantaneously.” Harry ran a stressed hand through his hair and sighed. “Usually, we're told the truth of our heritage, once we come of age and have mastered the first level of the Mind Arts, Occlumency, well enough to protect the information.”  
  
“Your trip to the continent?” Neville queried.  
  
“Never happened,” Harry answered bluntly, before elaborating with a lie.“In the last month that I was at school, I began to understand more and more of my nightmares, as they became less like nightmares and more like pleasant dreams that I could relate to. I really thought I was starting to go crazy. I could differentiate between my life and Ignotus's life with absolute clarity, like I was living two different lives – one moving forward and one working in reverse. It wasn't until the Seal broke completely, upon my return home, that I understood fully and knew what I needed to do to retain my sanity. I spent that week that Dad, Sirius, and I were 'on the continent' unconscious, as I put my mind in order, fully assimilating the knowledge from Ignotus's memories and subsequently purging his memories from my mind, while Dad and Sirius kept watch over me.  
  
“As I said,” he finished, “I'm not the boy you knew, but I'm still me, Harry. I guess you could say that I'm just a genuine Peverell now, instead of a Potter.”  
  
Neville sat, looking like he was trying very hard to come up with something to say, but falling short. His jaw worked a few times, but he uttered not a syllable.  
  
Harry stood, saving Neville from having to say anything at all. “I've a dinner to be heading off to, or so I imagine that I do – Mum usually keeps track of family affairs well enough, even if the rest of us turn up absentminded – but I thought you might like to be able to make sense of a least a portion of what happened the other night,” he said, looking down at Neville with the seriousness he felt the situation called for. “If you want to talk about the rest of what happened that night or anything at all – how your Venomous Snare is coming, Miss Hannah Abbott, why you've not been sleeping well – owl me. I'm going to be out of the country for the next few days and I've got business on Friday, not to mention a hundred other things to do in the near future, but I'll find time to drop by. You've been a good and loyal friend to me, Neville. I intend to repay all that you've done for me when you could have walked away and had an easier time by doing so. Goodnight, Neville Longbottom.”  
  
Harry only made it a few steps, before remembering Dumbledore's request. He turned back to find Neville staring after him with pensive eyes.“Headmaster Dumbledore asked me to pass along that he wishes you well.”  
  
With an incline of head in final fair well, Harry resumed his path out of the greenhouse, dismantling his wards at the entrance, as he did so. He progressed undisturbed, as he reentered Oakmere Manor through the sun room and left the manor through the entrance hall, heading down the gravel drive towards the gates. Upon exiting the manor's gates and stepping out from under the oppressive wards protecting the Longbottom's property, he spun on his heel and disapperated with a faint pop, his destination undoubted and fixed in his mind.  
  
A familiar black door with its distinct silver ouroboros knocker was the first sight that greeted Harry, as the unpleasantness of apparation left him. Upon entering 12 Grimmauld Place, he was met by a barely recognizable version of Number 12 that had had it's wallpaper and carpeting repaired, chandelier cleaned and brilliantly polished, and banister and running boards restrained. There wasn't a speck of dust in sight and the repugnant smell of rot and mildew that had previously permitted the home, even after his father and his godfather's round of cleaning a month ago, had been evicted, as had the darkness that had once clung to the shadows of the home.  
  
James and Sirius were loitering at the far end of the for once properly lit entrance hall, clearly awaiting Harry's arrival.  
  
“Snape?” Harry asked, as he let the door shut and lock behind him and closed the distance between him and the two men with swift strides.  
  
Sirius nodded his head towards the closed door that they all knew led to the kitchen.  
  
“Any trouble?” Harry studied the two closely for any visible signs of an altercation.  
  
“None,”Sirius said smoothly. “Albus was sufficiently distracted, no doubt preoccupied with the meeting you set with him on Friday. Good work on that.”  
  
“Two birds, one stone, dear godfather.” Harry smirked. “Well, three birds, one stone, really, as I've to go to Hogwarts for my tests regardless and I doubt he would have allowed me to pass the day within his domain without attempting to invite me up to his office for a little chat.”  
  
“Neville?” James asked.  
  
“I told him what he needed to hear most.” Harry shrugged in regards to his friends overall wellbeing. Neville hadn't been ready to talk, not to him at least. That much he had observed. “I figured that Ignotus's Seal was a safe bet – at least as close to the real truth as will ever be told – seeing as Dumbledore detected it when he examined you for the Dark Mark and will expect an explanation of a similar nature to the one I just gave Neville.”  
  
“You can't know that,” James countered, looking as if he weren't entirely comfortable with Ignotus's Seal becoming public knowledge.  
  
“I was acting with a high enough level of certainty that I've no qualms one way or the other.” Harry met his father's narrow-eyed gaze nonchalantly. “Its not like I plan to make an announcement to the papers or anything like that. Plus, the initial lie you fed McGonagall was weak, especially considering our change of situation. Dumbledore wouldn't have accepted it as being the truth. By giving away Ignotus's Seal, we'll better be able to protect the full truth and I'll have a better chance of gaining Dumbledore's trust with afar more believable story – his trust which I must say I do not have even in the slightest at the current moment. I swear, the only thing that kept him from trying to break open my mind in that meeting was the fact that he knows I'm proficient in the Mind Arts.”  
  
“Speaking of the Order meeting,” Sirius cut in, looking wary, “do we want to know what you saw when Elphias replayed the playback of Voldemort?”  
  
Harry clenched his jaw at the reminder. “Probably not,” he gritted out,“but I'm going to tell you about it anyway, once I've finished with Snape.”  
  
James opened his mouth, looking very much like he had a lot he wanted to say to Harry. For a second, Harry thought that his father would share what was on his mind, but instead the man closed his mouth with a snap and stepped aside, giving Harry unblocked access to the kitchen.  
  
Wordlessly, with one last querying glance at his father, Harry stepped between the two men and headed the descent down the narrow stairs. His father and godfather fell into step behind him.  
  
Upon pushing open the door at the bottom of the stairs and stepping into the kitchen, Harry saw that the space had been improved in a similar manner to the entrance hall. The cupboards had been freshly stained and were shut tight and resting perfectly on their hinges. There was no disorganized mess of cooking utensils strewn about the room in an unrecognizable organizational system. All wooden surfaces, from the sideboards to the massive oak table occupying the center of the room and the chairs placed around said table, were polished and free of dust.  
  
Harry eyes were drawn to the far end of the dimly lit cavern, to the silhouette before the plain, brick hearth alight with a roaring fire, which provided the only source of light throughout the room outside of a few candles by the door. He felt deep satisfaction at seeing Severus Snape constrained to a plain, wooden, straight-backed chair with a blindfold pulled over his head. It was unfortunate that he wasn't going to be able to enjoy having the bastard at his mercy.  
  
"Well, well, well," Harry jeered sportingly, as he made his way towards Snape, "look what the mutt dragged in."  
  
"I take offense to that," Sirius objected on the opposite side of the oak table, where he was making his way to the far end of the room a pace behind Harry. "I prefer skillfully nabbed with the superior cunning of my birth and artfully arranged captive in the preferred dramatic fashion of His Lordship's pleasure."  
  
harry grinned at his godfather, acknowledging the man's play at the egotism Snape so often accused him, his father, and his godfather of possessing.  
  
Upon reaching Snape, Harry stepped around the straight-backed chair to stand before the man, his back to the fire. He took a step towards Snape, and as he directed his wand at the blindfold over his captive's head, his godfather came to stand a step to his left and his father a step to his right. A wave of his wand and the blindfold was gone.  
  
Snape glared menacingly at the three towering over him through his greasy bangs, looking as if he'd love nothing more than to physically strangle all three at the same time, if he could manage it. The useless flexing of his muscles against his biddings suggested the same. He said nothing.  
  
"So here's the deal, Snape; I don't have all night," Harry informed his potions professor coldly, allowing the frigid rage and the hate that he felt towards the man to infect his voice and show openly on his shadowed face. "A hindrance, which is unfortunate for the both of us, as I'm of the opinion that a low life, like you, who is willing to sell out infants to his megalomaniac master all for a few kudos and a pat on the back and who has taken up terrifying innocent children as his day job for the last thirteen years deserves a slow, excruciatingly painful death – a death I so happen to be in the mood to grant. You see, I've had a bad couple of days – have some issues to workout and all."  
  
Snape sneered, though a brief flicker of worry passed in his eyes at the mention of selling out infants. His gaze momentarily settled on James.  
  
Harry smirked in return. "Yes, what would he do to you, if he knew?What would my mother say? Then again, isn't it enough that I know."  
  
Snape looked up at Harry with caution.  
  
"So here's why my time being limited is very bad for you," Harry continued his previous monologue, knowing he had Snape's undivided attention,"it's bad for you, because I'm not going to torture you for the information I want. You won't be able to lie to me, nor hold anything back. I will take all from you, your every dirty secret and leave you with nothing. You'll be as good as dead, but not quite, and I may just leave you that way, instead of granting you the mercy of death. To live out the rest of your days trapped within your own ravaged mind, unable to so much as wipe your own ass, perhaps that is justice."  
  
"You're bluffing." There was no false bravado in the statement, but rather a touch of uncertainty, perhaps fear.  
  
"Oh," Harry said softly and lowered himself slowly to kneel on one knee before Snape, bring them at matching eye level. He leaned into Snape's personal space with unbound malice on his face and intent that couldn't be contested. "I never bluff. No, I deliver. You're pal, Demachi, knew it and that bitch who was too damn high on her own ego to realize it found out just as you're about to."  
  
"But?" Snape prodded, as his eyes swept over his dimly lit surroundings in an assessing manner and with the intellect known to him. "You wouldn't be putting the effort into this show –"  
  
"Today is your lucky day," Harry pushed himself up to stand. "I really don't have time for this shit." He indicated to the room offhandedly. "So you answer my questions truthfully and I'll kill you quick and clean. We all depart from this room in under ten minutes; you to the afterlife and my lot to what I assume will be my birthday dinner. Although, if you prefer to be difficult ..." Harry flicked his wand into his hand and leveled it at the center of Snape's forehead with a steady, assured hand. "Your choice."  
  
Snape's eyes darted from Harry to the two men behind him, as if judging whether the two would really just stand there and allow Harry to deliver on his promised fate. He seemed to find something displeasing in the men's presence, as his lips pulled back and his nose scrunched up, as if he detected a foul odor. Upon his eyes settling back on Harry, he leveled a dignified look at the teenager.  
  
"You plan to kill me or leave as good as dead."  
  
"I do," Harry said simply.  
  
"And what of Albus Dumbledore?" Snape asked with a predatory pull at his lips. "Surely you understand my role in the order. You really think he won't have something to say about my death, or almost death? That you will get away with this? Gold may purchase your freedom from the courts, like it did for dumb and dumber here, but Albus will never trust you. You'll lose your place among the Order, your place at Hogwarts. You'll not – "  
  
Harry laughed, genuinely laughed. His mirth not only disturbed his captive, but his father and godfather as well. "Ha! You believe yourself to be in the presence of fools." He grinned madly and renewed his grip on his wand. As his grin slowly pull into a predatory smirk that matched the one Snape had previously displayed, Snape recoiled from the mirror image and looked far less sure of himself, particularly his understanding of the one holding him a wand point."If only my motives were so simple ..." Harry barked out a final laugh, one with a much darker edge affecting its sound. "You've no clue what you've placed yourself in the middle of, Snape. Not a damn clue. And just so we're clear, I don't give two fucks where your allegiance lie. Now," he commanded, "choose, or I'll choose for you."  
  
"You won't get away with this," Snape tried one last time, attempting to speak with more confidence than he felt.  
  
"Oh, I will." Harry's conviction was unshakable and he made no effort to disguise just how sure of himself he was. "What's a murder without a kill sight or a body? What's a mad man left to drool on the pavement but another poor soul destined for the asylum? Who will look for you when it is more likely that you fled or fell victim to Voldemort's wand?" Harry took pleasure in seeing Snape flinch at the mention of his master's name. "Last chance, Snape. Chose."  
  
Snape glared at Harry, loathing and knowledge of the inevitable plain on his face. "What do you want to know?" He asked with resignation through a clenched jaw and a tone filled with resentment.  
  
"How long ago did you discern that Voldemort was gaining strength?" Harry tilted his head knowingly at Snape's bound left forearm.


	28. Birthday Celebrations

The flash of sickly, pale blue light arched from its creator's wand to its victim in a single beat of its creator's heart, sizzling through the air and leaving the odor of heady ozone so common to the Dart Arts in its wake. Its victim's chest heaved once … twice … lungs rattling for one last, desperate breath … then nothing. Stillness, accompanied by the silence of death, followed. 

Harry stared into the blank eyes of Severus Snape and felt vindication, not only for himself, but for Neville. In the back of his mind, he existed detached from the kill, understanding the clinical part of it: that he had just neutralized a threat to his and the Order's operations and, of considerably more significance, a lethal enemy combatant. Nonetheless, Snape's death was personal for him foremost, as he had known that it would be. He made no effort to oppress the feelings coursing through him that evoked pleasure within him at the sight of Snape's slackened, lifeless form, as well as a lingering twinge of disappointment that he hadn't had the time to give Snape the death that the bastard truly deserved. What Snape had done, bring the Prophecy to Voldemort's attention, wasn't something any amount of remorse felt or apologies given could redeem a man from – not in Harry's eyes, not after he'd lived through the war in the other world and bore the weight of being the Chosen One. Not that Snape had truly felt remorse for the child he'd doom, or had ever truly switched sides in the war.

Harry cut his wand up through the air in a short swift movement of his wrist and curved it back down in a smooth 'S' pattern. Snape's corpse rippled with the effects of the magic and shifted to an ordinary, unassuming piece of fire wood. He vanished the bindings left loose on the chair and banished the chair back to its place at the table, as he picked up the chunk of fire wood with his free hand. Returning his wand to its place on his wrist, he turned to face the fire, which had burned hot at his back throughout the duration of Snape's interrogation. Without ceremony, he tossed what remained of Severus Snape upon the hungry flames. The wood caught alight instantly and was fully engulfed by the flames in a matter of seconds, burning brightly and crackling and popping like any other piece of wood.

For a long moment, Harry stared into the flames, watching all viable evidence of Snape's murder be consumed and erased from existence. A few whispered words and a measure of concentration on the flames on his part and he had the fire burning white hot, eating through the wood fueling it at a rapid pace. He would vanish the ashes and the evidence of the hearth having been used, as well, once the fire had become nothing but coals – for good measure. This world's Magical Britain, after all, wasn't even aware that it was at war.

As the seconds stretched to minutes, Harry looked up at his father, whose eyes he had felt the weight of even before entering the kitchen. James stared back at him, his face closed off and his posture rigid.

“Do we have a problem?” Harry asked, regarding the man with a penetrating stare.

“No,” James answered flatly.

“You're certain?” Harry pressed. He damn well knew that the man had something to say to him. His father had had something to say to him before they entered the kitchen and no doubt had more to say to him after what he and Sirius had stood witness to.

James inclined his head the slightest bit, issuing a challenge of his own. The silent communication told of his assent to share what was on his mind, if Harry really wanted him to, yet asked if Harry really wanted to hear what he had to say, or if there was even a point in him voicing to his thoughts, which they both knew Harry would pay little heed to in favor of his own agenda and would only strengthen the existing rift between them.

Harry cut his gaze over to his godfather and raised a querying eyebrow at the man, choosing not to answer his father's challenge.

“You were going to tell us what you saw in the playback?” Sirius asked with an assumed casual air, attempting to look unaffected by the ruthlessness Harry had displayed in his handling of Snape just now and the cold blooded way his godson had killed an unarmed, bound man, even if said man had been one Severus Snape.

“Voldemort is manifesting his free essence,” Harry spoke with the absolute conviction he felt, after having interrogated Snape. He hadn't learned a lot from Snape, if anything at all. Mostly, Snape had confirmed much of what he had already deduced. Voldemort had started to gain detectable strength back in '91. About a year ago the Dark Mark had begun to darken visibly. Two weeks ago it had become the darkest its ever been since Voldemort was last at the height of his power. And as Harry had suspected, Voldemort had yet to summon Snape, or a majority of his Death Eater for that matter, let alone make it known to said followers that he was in the country.

_Only those who are too useful to remain ignorant or those who are absolutely loyal,_ Harry accounted for the Death Eaters that he and his father had witnessed in Voldemort's presence. _He's strong enough to allow others to perceive him, but not strong enough to risk full disclosure of his return._

It was good and bad news, but confirmed, along with the cumulative of Snape's answers, that Voldemort wasn't possessing his horcrux. If he'd been possessing his horcrux, his strengthen wouldn't have been any where near turning the Death Eater's Dark Marks a deep coal, almost pure black.

“Which means that he needs Neville's blood more than anything, more than I initially thought.” Harry pinned his father and godfather with a grave look and began to explain just how unstable Voldemort's form was, yet how powerful Voldemort could become in his current form, stressing that there was the potential for Voldemort to become as strong as he had been when he had had a body.

It was a little over a half hour later when Harry, James, and Sirius entered Potter Cottage and were greeted by Lily, Mayra, and Remus in the entrance hall.

Harry forced a smile onto his face and returned his mother's embrace, while his father clapped Remus on the shoulder in their accustom greeting and his godfather treated Mayra to a chastised peck on the lips and a secretive smile in answer to her question of where they had gotten off to. A question that Harry found in his mother's eyes and saw plainly on Remus's pensive brow.

“I flooed Alice and she said you left over forty minutes ago.” Lily frowned with concern.

James gave his wife a sheepish look. “Well … I … er … promised Harry his first drink.”

Harry looked to his father with wide, startled eyes, clearly questioning his father's sanity. Instead of the tongue lashing he expected his mother to treat him, his father, and his godfather to, however, she just threw her hands up in the air, as if to say that she had had enough and didn't know what to say or think anymore. She detached herself from their group and headed back up the hall towards the kitchen muttering unintelligibly under her breath. Mayra followed her, pausing just long enough to give James and Sirius disapproving looks.

“Funny that I don't smell a whiff of alcohol on any of you,” Remus commented idly, once the kitchen at the end of the hall had shut behind Mayra.

“Figured I'd own up to.” James shrugged carelessly. “Not that I had planned to ...” he grimaced, before brightening and pulling Harry into a fatherly, one armed embrace. He ruffled Harry's hair as he had done countless time over the years, a gesture that had become so familiar to them that James have never thought twice about the action until a month ago. “Kid's legal to buy his own alcohol now,” he said with a proud smile. “Family tradition dictates that his old man owes him his first drink.”

Remus shook his head with exasperation and disapproval. “The Bethany, Aries, and Mira are out back, setting things up.”

“How is Bethany?” Harry couldn't help but ask after his sister.

“Better than when we left. I think the day was good for her. She was very insistent that we not wake Caelum from his nap, almost motherly in fact.”

“As long as I get my kids back in one piece, she could be screaming and I'd be happy,” Sirius quipped and headed up the hall with an eager jaunt and an easy grin.

Harry grinned at his godfather's exclaimed “Ouch!”, upon his father catching up to the man and whacking him up side the back of the head. It was all show, purely for Remus's benefit, he knew, but it made him grin nonetheless.

“So where were you really?” Remus asked softy, as he and Harry watched James and Sirius exit the house and heard the squeals of delight from the Black children at their father and Uncle James's return.

“Out for a drink.” Harry raised an eyebrow at Remus, silently asking if the man had truly expected an different answer.

“You wreak of Dark Magic, Harry,” Remus said seriously and tapped his nose, reminding them both that he wasn't exactly human. “All of you, but you in particular.”

Harry stepped into Remus, deciding to put an end to Remus's prying, before the man got himself into trouble that the man wouldn't be able to get out of. The last few weeks he'd ignored the suspicious way Remus had regarded him when the werewolf had thought he wasn't aware. He had side stepped the man's inquiries and many not-so-subtle attempts to trip him up. For all that Remus claimed that he trusted him and believed him, believed that he was James and Lily's son, the man watched him and was plainly waiting for the moment that he could declare him an impostor.

Though Harry was shorter and his shoulders had yet to broaden, Remus shrunk back from Harry. His body acting of its own accord and locking up at feeling tangible, highly potent magic wash across his skin and encompass his being. He shivered, picking up on the acute control and deep well of power the boy before him possessed seemingly as easy as breathing his next breath.

“My father, Sirius, and I were out for a drink,” Harry spoke with finality, his eyes boring into the side of Remus's skull, as the paralyzed man had stepped back and turned partially away from him the moment that he had closed the distance between them. “I suggest you put no further thought into the matter, Uncle. The risk is not worth the reward. I assure you. And while we're having this conversation, I suggest that you rid yourself of the notion that I'm not who I say I am for I am James and Lily Potter's son and a whole lot more.”

“James and Lily's son would never do anything like this,” Remus said with conviction, still frozen in place. “If you were our Harry –”

“I'm not. I'm not that boy anymore.” Harry met Remus's startled gaze, as the man turned to look at him, with indifference. “I'm serious, Remus.” He narrowed his eyes at the werewolf. “Cut the shit. I don't need the distraction and I don't look forward to you forcing my hand, to having to do something we'll both regret with me being the only one who remembers it. I've my reasons for what I do and don't do, reasons for what I say and don't say, reasons Dad and Sirius support. If you can't bring yourself to trust me, trust them. But don't think that I'll hesitate to protect the truth when I tell you that Dad, Sirius, and I were out for a drink or that we were having a holiday on the continent last month. My affections for you are a secondary priority in all of this.”

“In all of what?” Remus demanded, looking wounded by Harry's last remark.

“You're a smart man.” Harry stepped back and reigned in his magic. “I'm sure if you give it a few minutes of thought, the larger picture will become much clearer. Now, if you'll excuse me, I do believe I'm the guest of honor at this little soirée.” With that, he turned on his heel and head for the back garden, resigning himself to the birthday party awaiting him.

The evening passed into night quickly. Harry remained somewhat distracted throughout the whole affair, his mind making plans and calculating which risks were truly worth the risk and what actions had priority over other, less important actions. The garden was beautiful, lit with fairy lights and candles, the table filled with dishes emitting tantalizing aromas, and the air celebratory – not that he noticed. He did thank his mother for the wonderful meal (his favorite steak pie and side dishes of scalloped potatoes and stir fried green beans) and to complement Mayra on the cake (chocolate with vanilla frosting).

When if was time for him to open his presents, Harry made sure to tune in and acknowledge each one. He made a show of how much he liked the dragon hide vest that Aries supposedly got him, knowing that the boy had only picked it out and that it was really from Sirius and Mayra, but also knowing that Aries looked up to him as an older brother of sorts and had wanted to impress him with his choice of gift. He was less enthused about Mira's choice of gift, an ostentatious looking dictation quill, but he expressed how useful it would be to him and the young girl smiled, pleased with herself. Caelum's gift was surprisingly decent considering that the two year old said (and his parents confirmed, not even patronizingly) that he had picked it out all by himself. The boot polish was high end and something he'd definitely use.

“Boots!” Caelum exclaimed, pointing at the dragon hide boots Harry was wearing, as if he knew just how useful his gift would be to Harry.

“He asked what you'd liked,” Mayra explained. “I told him that I didn't really know, but you'd been insistent about your boots when we went shopping and seemed to like them. He's seen Sirius polishing his boots so ...”

“Thank you,” Harry said genuinely and gave Caelum, who was sitting in Mayra's lap, his best grin. “And thank you, Caelum.”

The toddler beamed with pride in response.

The present Harry received from Bethany consisted of an assortment of fudges from Honeydukes and a leather bound journal that looked fairly expensive and possibly cost his sister a month's allowance.

“You're always writing,” Bethany mumbled, as she pushed her cake around her plate without appearing to be all that interested in the party or too enthused to be speaking to him.

Harry thanked her and decided then and there that they'd have a long conversation once he returned from Egypt, not only about the summer, but about Romilda Vane and how things were going to have to be when they returned to Hogwarts. After all, James and he had left her in the dark about him claiming the Peverell Lordship due to the fact that they hadn't wanted to risk the _Prophet_ catching wind of what they were up to until he had declared himself and made their heritage public. They hadn't been able to trust her not to run her mouth off to the Vane girl, plain and simple.

Remus gifted Harry a Muggle history book that covered the rise of Napoleon Bonaparte.

“Thanks,” Harry said, not quite sure what to make of the gift. Remus's accustom gift was a book, but never had he given him a Muggle book, let alone a history book. The book did look interest, nonetheless. The few pages he had flipped through discussed military tactics.

“Be sure to read it through to very end,” Remus said cryptically and proceeded to excuse himself for the evening, which was fast approaching night. “The day has done me in. I'm sorry, but I really must go. I'll end up falling asleep right where I sit should I stay,” he gave his excuses to James and Lily, yet leveled Harry with a cold look when he didn't think anyone was looking.

Harry answered the look with a cold look of his own.

The goodbyes were swift and Remus took his leave, leaving the party to resume and Sirius to present Harry with his next gift.

Harry unwrapped it carefully with hands that he had to force to keep steady, the gift bring forth within him a painful sense of nostalgia from the last time he'd unwrapped a package of the exact same shape and size from his godfather back in the other world and the many memories – some good, some downright horrible – attached to said gift. He couldn't speak, as he stared down at the brand new Firebolt lying out on the table before him. He want to say thank you, express his glee at having one of the finest brooms ever crafted in his possession once more, but not a word of his thanks managed to make its way out of his throat. Finally, after gaping stupidly for a full minute, he stood and walked around the table to where Sirius and Mayra were sitting. He hugged Mayra first, making sure not to crush Caelum in the embrace, before turning to hug his godfather in a manner that he hope expressed just how much he liked the gift and how much it meant to him, even though this Sirius had no way of knowing that his counterpart had once gifted him a Firebolt in the other world that had ended up meaning everything to him, after the man's death.

Sirius didn't immediately react to Harry's embrace, too surprised to do so right off. When he did return it, at first his touch was tentative, as if he weren't sure what Harry wanted from him or would accept from him. Upon realizing, however, that the hug was genuine and not a front with an ulterior motive, which he'd come to expect from Harry more often than not over the last few weeks, he tightened his arms around his godson in a rib crushing hug, taking advantage of the contact extended to him and drawing Harry close to him, as if he didn't want to let go, didn't want the moment to end.

When Harry pulled free from his godfather, he pretend not to notice the way Sirius didn't quite look at him or the watery sheen in the man's eyes, realizing in that moment that the strain between them was far greater than he had estimated. He promptly returned to his seat and accepted his gifts from his mother, who was glancing between him and Sirius with confusion and worry.

“I … I wasn't certain what you'd like,” Lily rambled, as Harry peeled back the wrapping paper of the closest gift to him. “Your preferences are so different. If you don't –”

Harry drew a surprised breath, upon opening the unadorned box he'd unwrapped. He had no clue how his mother had gotten her hands on a Scryer's Medallion. They were rarer than rarer and a non-tradable item in Britain. He delicately lifted the silver medallion from the satin pillow it rested upon. Its thin, silver chain dangled freely, as he studied the intricately designed, reflective surface of medallion closely, tracing the magic at work through his palm. He felt a momentary jolt of shock when he picked up on the familiarity of his mother's magic at work within the medallion, powering it.

“It's amazing,” Harry said wholeheartedly, looking up at his mother with new found respect. He so did not have the patience to create a Scryer's Medallion, let alone have the natural talent necessary in Divinations to do so – few did. He placed the medallion around his neck and slipped the cold medal down the front of his shirt, allowing it to come to rest against his chest. Looking at his mother once more, he just stared at her, as his hand unconsciously gripped the medallion through the fabric of his tunic. There was no telling how many times her gift would save his life in the years to come.

“It won't help against sudden attacks,” Lily said anxiously, “but maybe ...”

Harry nodded his understanding, saving her from having to finish her statement. His death was a very real possibility, a fact all of the adults at the table were aware of and not one of them fell comfortable with accepting. “I'll never take it off,” he vowed.

“I'm glad you don't think it's too much,” Lily smiled softly, seeming to gain a small amount of relief from his promise, “that I'm being paranoid or overprotective. I wasn't sure if you'd even know what it was.”

“What is it?” Aries piped up.

“I'll tell you later, sweetheart,” Mayra promised, causing Aries to pull a face and sit back in his chair to pout.

The two other gifts from his mother consisted of the Hebridean Black gauntlet and bracer set that he had eyed when he'd picked out his boots and the final installment of _The Royal Knight Trilogy_ that he'd been following since reading the first book of the trilogy a little over three years ago. He didn't know when he'd have time to finish the final installment of the trilogy, but put reading _The Rise of a King_ on his list of things to do someday when he had a bit of free time.

He thanked his mother for all his gifts and gave her a warm hug, which she returned happily and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead.

“I didn't actually buy you anything,” James confessed, as he stood and presented Harry with two flat, wooden cases that looked like they'd been crafted and designed by a master caver. One was a deep walnut, while the other was a honey color. Neither was all that large in size with the honey colored case at least twice the size of the walnut case, which was hard deeper or wide than a deck of cards. He set the honey colored case before Harry and held out the walnut case to his son. “What I give you, Harold James Peverell, son of my blood and lord of my person by rightful claim, on this day of your birth fourteen years ago is worth far more than anything all the galleons in the our family vault could buy. By all that you are, I release to you that which is rightfully yours.” He finished with a deep bow, lowering himself down on one knee in a show of the strength of his respect for who Harry become to him.

Harry acknowledge the man's words and actions by opening the walnut case as his father presented it to him. His brow furrowed and he reached out gingerly for the archaic key that was entirely unremarkable in its appearance outside of its apparent age. He frozen, his hand hovering less than an inch above the key, at feeling the intensity of the magic that the key possessed. With a bracing breath, not know what to expect, he curved his fingers downward and nimbly lifted the key from the ruby silk it rested upon. For a second, he felt nothing from the key, but that only lasted for the brief moment it took him to grasp the key fully. The instant that his hand closed around the key, his vision blurred and he felt the key's magic slithered up his arm, lick along his neck with a not unpleasant feeling, and flood his mind. Instintually, as if he knew what the key was and what he must do, he opened his mind to the magic and surrendered to the feeling of flight that he was all too familiar with.

_He was soring over an ancient forest, beating his black wings in time with the updraft propelling itself and him over the spread of hills before him. A thrill ran through him at the feeling of flight, loving the rush of the wind against his body and the high noon sun soaking into his feathers. He beat his wings harder, propelling himself towards the sun, before diving down into the hidden valley that was nestled between the tree blanketed hills. He let out a shrill caw, as he glided around the cut of a river bend – the roar of the water speeding downstream exciting him and filling him with anticipation. As the river curved in the opposite direction, he flew upwards and regained his height above the tree line. It was as he rose that a majestic castle appeared to him, tucked back against the steep slopes of the hills around it. He let another shrill caw, one filled with joy and that told the creatures of the land of his delight at finally returning home. As he circled around the castle, with regret, he banked back the way he had come, consoled by the the knowledge that he'd return soon and when he did, he'd be able to find the castle on his own._

Harry regained his awareness of the present just as quickly as he had lost it. Looking around surreptitiously, he noted that no one had notice that he'd checked out from the party mentally to take an afternoon flight over the forests of northern Derbyshire. He wasn't surprised, considering the happenings within the mind always seemed to work outside of conventional time. He replaced the key clutched tightly against his palm back within its case and set the case with his other gifts at the edge of the table. He would not need the key again, nor would its magic work a second time. It was nothing more then a trinket now.

“Rise,” Harry told his father and the man did so promptly. Harry stood as well in a swift, elegant motion. He looked to his father with respect that mirrored the respect the man had displayed towards him. “Just as no amount of galleons could buy what you've given me, no words can express the immensity of my gratitude towards you for all that you done for me, not only today with the gifts you've given me or even all you've done for me and this family over the last month. You've honored me every day of my life, Dad. Know that I respect you, love you, and will always hear you out, difference of opinion or not,” he said sincerely, hoping that his father could hear the absolute honesty in his words. “Not everything must change between us,” he murmured for only his father to hear.

“It won't,” James answered quietly, as he pulled Harry into an embrace. “I won't let you destroy this,” he whispered into Harry's ear, as he held his son close. “Test me all you like, push me beyond my limits.” His arms tightened around Harry with the fierceness of his whispered words. “I promise you, Harry, I won't let you lose yourself in this war and destroy everything good and decent in your life in the process.” He hesitated, before continuing with the same fierceness and unmistakable conviction. “But know, son, should I somehow fail in my promise and allow you to give yourself over to the what lingers at the edges of you mind, I will be the one to kill you. You're my son, my responsibility. Do you understand?”

Harry swallowed hard, knowing that his father wasn't bluffing, and nodded numbly.

When they pulled apart, Sirius was the only one who seemed to understand what had transpired between the father and son hadn't exactly been a loving embrace.

Harry resumed his seat and pulled the honey colored case towards him, acting as if everything was perfectly fine – a falsehood his father imitated, as he returned to his own seat up the table.

“Is this goblin made?” Harry asked, as he removed the plain handled dagger from the honey colored case and withdrew it from its sheath.

James nodded. “Every Baron of the Peak has carried that dagger from the time of William Peverell, who received it as a gift from his father,” he said, no hint of his previous words in his voice.

Harry ran his fingers over the raven engraved into the blade, which was six inches long, narrower than average, and visibly sharp. It was the style of dagger that he had favored in the other world. “It's perfect.”

“It's not a toy, Harry,” Lily said with warning, clearly in disagreement with his father giving him something so 'dangerous'.

“I know that, Mum.” Harry sheathed the blade compliantly and replaced it in its case.

“To Harry,” Sirius raised his glass in a toast as soon as Harry had set the case aside with his other presents.

“To Harry!” echoed around the table and final wishes of a happy birthday were issued to Harry as well.

Not long after, the Blacks departed for the night and the residents of Potter Cottage hauled themselves up to bed, seeking sleep after the long and trying day that they had had.


	29. Egypt

The Sphinx's Claw, the known watering hole for non-local magicals hidden down a back alley within the chaos of Cairo, was the only pub throughout Egypt to serve Dragon's Breath, Fiend Tonic, and Firewhiskey short of tourists finding a local alcohol enthusiast with foreign tastes to take pity on them and invite them around for a drink. The dive wasn't quite up to The Three Broomsticks or The Leaky Cauldron's standards of cleanliness, but had a mile on The Hogshead.  
  
Harry sat in a shadowed corner booth at the back of the poorly lit pub, paying no mind to the heavy incense of shisha that hung visibly in the air or the hard and lumpy state of the bench he sat upon, instead intently observing out of the corner of his eye the red head at the far end of bar, who was surrounded by a diverse and rowdy group of drinking buddies. Bill Weasley, age 23 and advancing indecently fast in his chosen career of Curse Breaking, wasn't exactly a stranger to him, but wasn't exactly familiar to him either. He'd only truly gotten to know Bill in the other world after two years of war and the red head settling down with Fleur, which was more than enough time and change of circumstance to alter a man and his motives.  
  
Harry sipped at his apfelschorle, as he contemplated how best to issue his proposition to this version of Bill, who he had concluded reminded him little of the other world's Bill, other than the man's enthusiasm for his work. This Bill was far more wild in nature, vain, and ambitious beyond Harry had ever known him to be.   
  
With the way things had worked out, upon Harry's arrival in Egypt, it had taken him not but a few hours to track down Bill and his team's camp to 20 miles outside of the small village of Farafra. Yet, he had had no way to discretely gain access to the camp and the team's excavation sight, or Bill for that matter, when the red head and his team remained in camp and working, without drawing far more attention to himself than he liked. Tonight was the first time, since he had begun his reconnaissance two days ago, that the team of Curse Breakers had decided to take a few hours off and go out for the evening.  
  
“Bull shit!”  
  
Harry's eyes zeroed in on the Texan who was part of Bill's group and was sitting just to Bill's right. The man was fair haired beneath his cowboy hat and had a red kerchief tied around his neck, which Harry knew from his observations that the man liked to draw up over his mouth and nose when exposed to the elements out in the open desert.   
  
“He ain't either,” the Texan said, casting a skeptical look in Harry's direction.  
  
The barman, Saif, grinned, his hand unconsciously touching the left pocket of his work robes and giving it a pat, as if assuring himself that what was within his pocket was truly there and hadn't disappeared in the interim of him returning to the bar after delivering Harry a second apfelschorle. “Ask him, if no believe me,” he said simply with an Arabic accent and turned away from the group to take an order from a stocky, dark skinned man dressed in expensive business attire who had just entered the pub and had plopped himself down on a stool a little ways up the bar, looking very much like he could use a drink … or twenty.  
  
Harry pretend not to notice the speculative looks he received from the Curse Breakers, as he took another sip of his apfelschorle and turned his attention to gazing with interest at the veiled waitress – no doubt the barman's daughter, as he saw nothing to indicate that she was married – who was serving a French couple sitting at a table not far away from him. He maintained his charade, following the waitress with his eyes –admiring the curve of her back, the sway of her hips, and touch of playfulness in her dark eyes – until the very moment that it became all to obvious that the Texan, Bill, and the only witch on Bill's team, a tall Amazon woman without an ounce of fat on her lean, muscular body, were approaching him. He regarded the Texan with a disdainful look, as the man stumble into the seat across from him without invitation to do so.  
  
“Saif says you're a parselmouth,” the Texan blurted out bluntly, his words slurred ever so slightly with his intoxication, “and theshe two,” he indicated to Bill and the Amazon witch, “reckon he might be right.”  
  
“Sorry about him,” Bill said quickly to Harry and dragged the Texan out of the booth with a look of his face that clearly told the Texan to shut up and stop being arse. He pushed his drunken coworker off onto the Amazon witch, who rolled her eyes and steadied the cowboy before he toppled them both. Upon turning back to Harry, Bill held out his hand. “Bill Weasley, Gringotts Curse Breaker. These are Ian Colton and Marpesia, my coworkers.”  
  
“ _Izaak Wetzel. I don't understand. What is it that you want from me?_ ”Harry asked in fluent German and with a perplexed look plastered upon his face, as he shook Bill's hand.  
  
Bill pursed his lips, as the Texan groaned and Marpesia sighed. “You don't speak English?”  
  
Harry just stared at Bill, as if the answer should be obvious.   
  
“Right,” Bill said with a look of determination. “ _Do you speak French?_ ” he asked, his French unsteady.  
  
“ _Not well._ ” Harry shook his head, replying in French with a heavy German accent and matching Bill's unsteadiness with the language.   
  
Bill frowned.  
  
Harry pretended to think a minute, before smiling at Bill and Marpesia with a look that clear said that he had an idea. “ _Saif_ ,”he called to the barman and waved him over, “ _can you translate for us?_ ” he asked in broken, but recognizable Arabic, as the barman rounded the bar and approached them.  
  
“ _It's alright, Saif._ ” Bill waved the barman off. His Arabic flowed with fluency. “ _I think we'll be able to understand each other just fine, actually._ ”  
  
“ _You speak Arabic!_ ” Harry declared with delight, as if nothing could please him more.  
  
“ _I suppose I should have tried it first._ ” Bill grinned. “ _I thought you were just a traveler passing through, though, as most foreigners are in these parts._ ”  
  
“ _I'm a student,_ ” Harry said with enthusiasm and gestured for Bill to sit with him with a measure of insistence. “ _I plan to travel all of the Nile, before moving on to travel throughout all of the Middle East. You mentioned Grigotts, but I did not understand. Do you work for the goblins?”_  
  
As Bill sat down, he took the moment to decipher Harry's halted Arabic.“ _I'm a Curse Breaker for Grigotts, as are Ian, Marpesia, and my team,_ ” he said, once he had settled across from Harry, and indicated to where the rest of his team was watching their interaction from the bar.   
  
“We'll just return to our drinks,” Marpesia said to Bill and began to steer Ian back towards the bar.  
  
“ _They have a no clue what we're saying,_ ” Bill explained in response to Harry's frown and questioning glance at Marpesia and Ian's retreating forms. “ _I'm the translator for the team, in this part of the world at least._ ”  
  
“ _Does your team work here often_?” Harry asked curiously and gestured to the room, as if to indicate the vast expanse that was Egypt beyond the pub that they sat conversing in.   
  
“ _I've been stationed here since graduating from training._ ” Bill grimaced. “ _I made the mistake back then of making my self invaluable to the goblins by learning the local language._ ” He inclined head back towards his team. “ _Working in the same region for an extended period of time has its payoffs, though, so I shouldn't complain. Only twenty-three and I'm the Chief Curse Breaker here with my own hand picked team and three more teams working under my own,_ ” he spoke with pride and a touch of bragging rights. “ _What about you? How long have you been in Cairo? You're Arabic isn't half bad.”_  
  
“ _I've been traveling for about a year,_ ” Harry said with an easy air and sipped at his drink. “ _I left Germany, crossed through France, and made my way down through Spain into Morocco. I've been traveling the African coast ever since: Algeria, Tunisia, Libya ..._ ” he nodded to Bill. “ _I've tried to find as may local people to talk to along the way, but you're not exactly a local. Where's home?_ ”  
  
“ _England._ ” Bill motioned for Saif to bring his Fiend Tonic over to the table from the fresh round of drinks that Ian had just bought for their team.  
  
“ _Will you be attending the World Cup then?_ ” Harry asked brightly and, like usual when one combined a Weasley, alcohol, and talk of Quidditch, Bill forgot all about his original reason for approaching Harry and initiated an animated conversation about the upcoming Quidditch World Cup that his homeland had the good fortune of hosting.  
  
The hours passed seemingly outside of Bill's notice, as Harry kept him engaged in their conversation, moving on from Quidditch, once they had exhausted the topic for the time being, to discussing the rare magics that each of them had come across in their individual pursuits of unlocking the secrets of the ancients that had once ruled the region. Bill was just as passionate in discussing his work as ever. It was all too easy for Harry to slipped back into the role of Bill's protégé, as he listened to Bill speak about millennia old enchantments and mass warding schemes that hadn't ever been seen or heard of before his team had discovered them protecting the tombs they were attempting to excavate.   
  
So engrossed in their conversation Bill was, he merely nodded with an absentminded air when Marpesia came over to tell him that the team was headed back to camp for the night. It wasn't until Saif began cashing out the till and the young waitress started turning up chairs on freshly bust tables that Bill looked around the nearly empty pub and realized just how late the hour had grown.  
  
“ _Last call was thirty minutes ago,_ ” Harry supplied his compatriot. Even as he spoke, the three Russians in a booth near the door, who were the only costumers remaining outside of Bill and himself, rose from their seats and made to take their leave.   
  
The moment that the door shut behind the Russians, Saif motioned to his daughter and both cleared the room just as quickly, heading back into the kitchen and leaving Harry alone with Bill.  
  
Bill furrowed his brow with his confusion, which was heightened by the copious amount of alcohol that he had consumed in the progression of the night.  
  
“You're going to have to pardon me for deceiving you,” Harry said in his native tongue and accent and rose from his seat, drawing his wand from its place at his wrist. He cut his wand through the air in a practiced warding pattern that swiftly and efficiently locked down the room from all forms of spying and outside interference. “I prefer that my identity cannot be confirmed by anyone outside yourself.”  
  
Bill – who had fumbled for his wand, upon Harry standing and taking out his own – finally retrieved his wand from the breast pocket of his vest and stood somewhat unsteadily, leveling his wand at Harry. “What is this? Who are you?”  
  
“I am someone who can make you a very rich man, Williams Weasley.” Harry flicked his wand back into the holster at his wrist visibly and with purpose, while maintaining unwavering eye contact with Bill. “Someone who can ofter you and you're family protection in the coming war and deliver on said protection,” he said, as he reached into the breast pocket of his robes and retrieved two phials. “Here,” he offered the lavender concoction to Bill. “You're going to want to drink this. What I'm about to ask of you isn't something you should commit to while intoxicated.”  
  
“Who are you?” Bill demanded a second time, ignoring the offered Sobering Solution.  
  
Harry set the Sobering Solution on the table for Bill's later consumption with a sigh. “I was getting to that,” he said and uncapped the navy phial that remained in his possession. He downed the concoction in one swallow and shivered at the feeling of the potion taking effect. He doubled over a half-heartbeat later with a sharp intake of breath and gave himself over to the uncomfortable sensation of his bones shrinking, his back popping out of alignment only to realign itself to accommodate a smaller torso, and his skin and muscles pulling tight across and throughout his body in adjustment to the overall reduction of his size. Once the anti-dote to the aging potion that he had taken early in the evening had complete taken effect, he looked up at Bill's stunned expression and smirked. He pushed his dark bangs out of his face, running his hand through his hair, and righted himself. “I take it you've been getting the _Prophet_.”  
  
Bill nodded, his eyes remaining wide and his jaw just noticeably slack.  
  
“Good.” Harry drew his wand once more and shrank his clothes back down to their proper size. With returning his wand to his wrist, he resumed his seat and indicated that Bill ought to do the same. “We've much to talk about and little time. The matter is delicate and not without risks, I warn you now.”  
  
A bit more composed than he had been a moment prior, Bill lowered himself into his seat.   
  
“First things first,” Harry indicated to the Sobering Solution before Bill. “My deception goes only as far as maintaining my cover here. I don't want either of us to feel that I took advantage of your state and manipulated you into accepting my offer. For the work I need you to do, we must trust one another from the start, for there are certain things I cannot tell you and certain things you'll be able to discern about the project that I've no understanding of and will have to depend upon you and your judgment to see the project through. So, please …” He gestured a bit more insistently to the lavender potion.  
  
“Alight,” Bill said, picking up the Sobering Solution and uncorking it. He down the concoction with a grimace. “You've my interest, my lord. What merits you traveling all the way to Egypt for a personal sit down with me? You do know Gringotts has plenty of Curse Breakers in country?”  
  
  
“But none that I can trust.” Harry leveled a meaningful look at Bill. “Our families are not exactly close – it is true – but that will change soon, I suspect, and I've a certain respect for you Weasleys. You keep your word, nearly to a fault. Not to mention, your tenacity, courage, and infallible loyalty, once earned. There is also the fact that this deal between us, should you agree to my proposal, will be outside of the sphere of the goblins' influence and general interests. In fact, I'll be asking you to quit your current job and to come work directly for me. Naturally, I'll make the benefits for doings so well worth your while and ensure your future career prospects do not suffer in the least, if not assure that they prosper,” he added, upon noting Bill's scowl. “If you can manage what I require, when all is said and done, you'll will be famed among the circles you run in. I've no doubt.”  
  
Bill narrowed his eyes with suspicion. “Anything that sounds too good to be true usually is.”  
  
“I assure,” Harry said seriously, “what I promise you, you will have. I've no delusions about what I'm asking you to undertake. I would undertake the project myself and leave the world out of it, if I could, but I can't. I need someone familiar with permanent warding schemes and not just the everyday construct. The complexity of what I'm dealing with is beyond anything I've seen or read about, and I'm willing to put galleons on it being something you've not seen, as well.”  
  
“I should say 'no' right now and walk away.”  
  
“A smart man would,” Harry said with honesty. “But I don't suggest doing so. As I mentioned, there's a war coming. And I need what I need done, before all hell break lose. Thousand, if not millions of lives, could depend upon it. Your family's lives will depend upon it.”  
  
“A war with who?” Bill demanded, looking uneasy. “Just what the hell is going on?”  
  
“Voldemort. He's back, or as good as,” Harry said in a matter of fact manner, ignoring the way Bill flinched at hearing Voldemort's name. “The Order of the Phoenix is reforming and your parents will be recruited any day now, if they haven't been already. I imagine they'll be in contact with you soon and, if they don't recruit you and Charlie directly, some else from the Order will make the attempt.”  
  
“You're lying,” Bill accused, denial written all over his face with a hint of fear that what Harry was saying might be true.  
  
Harry cocked his head at Bill and considered the man. _To push or not to push?_ This part of his plan he'd been undecided upon and even now wasn't sure of. Out of all the Weasleys, Bill's temperament was the most stable, yet when it came to threats to his family, he was downright unpredictable.   
  
“I'll give you a week,” Harry said decisively, after a long drawn out moment, where Bill had stood his ground under his gaze, “to decide to pursue my offer further. If you still believe I'm lying by then, then that is that. No hard feelings. I'll look for someone else to do the job. If, however, you come to the conclusion that I'm being truthful and want to do something far more worth while in the war effort than intelligence gathering from behind a desk at Gringotts, meet me at the Three Broomsticks at noon and I'll give you all the information you need to make an informed decision as to whether you truly want to accept my offer or not. If I could give you longer, I would, but I really don't feel comfortable leaving things off for even an additional week.”  
  
Harry stood and picked up his cloak off of the bench beside him. He pulled the dark gray cloak around his shoulders, fastened it at his neck, and drew up its hood. “Though this should go without saying, given the nature of our meeting,” he pinned Bill with a dark, warning look. “My presence here, my offer to you, and my status as your employer, should you accept my offer, ought to remain strictly between us. For both of our protection in the days to come, it is essential that we operate with the utmost discretion. I can not possibly stress this enough: no one can know that I've approached you.”  
  
Bill nodded, seeming to grasp that no matter Harry's motives or the truth of his words, much was at stake for the young lord and possibly for him just with them meeting as they have.  
  
“Goodnight, Bill.” Harry inclined his head in farewell, satisfied. “I hope to see you in a week.”  
  
As Harry made for the exit, he heard Bill release a tense breath and down the remainder of the Fiend Tonic that he'd order just before last call. At the door of the pub, Harry paused just long enough to disassemble his wards. A few steps beyond the pub, he turned on the spot and dispparated with a _pop!_ He was done in Egypt for the time being.  
  
– – – – –  
  
Lily paced the entrance hall of her family's cottage restlessly, all the while silently cursing her husband and son.   
  
“He'll come,” Bethany assured her mother from where she stood in the doorway of the sitting room with an overnight bag slung on her shoulder. She'd been ready to floo to Castle Black for the past ten minutes, but hadn't been able to bring herself to leave her mother, who was clearly upset, alone with only an empty house for comfort.“He said he'd be here.”  
  
“The number one thing to understand about men,” Lily said bitingly, “is that they make a lot of promises, few of which they will ever fulfill.”  
  
Bethany bit her lip and shifted her weight to her other foot, not entirely certain how to respond or what else she could do or say to sooth her mother.  
  
“You should go,” Lily told her with a heavy sigh and stopped in her pace to look at her daughter. “No matter where your father is, Sirius and Mayra will want to leave soon.”  
  
“Unless Sirius is with Dad … again,” Bethany said, remembering waiting up with her mother until four in the morning the night before last all to clearly. Her father hadn't returned until the next afternoon and had simply said that he had been with Sirius, a story which Sirius had echoed to Mayra only that he had been with James.“We should floo Mayra and –”  
  
“No,” Lily said with a sharp shake of her head. “I'm not going to be _that_ wife. I'm not!” She took a deep, calming breath. “Listen, sweetie, we must trust your father, your brother, and your godfather, whatever it is that they may or may not be up to. James said that he'd be here and that he wasn't meeting Sirius today. We must trust that he will be and that he isn't.”  
  
“But I though you said that the number one thing to understand about men is that they make promises they'll never fulfill.” Bethany frowned at her mother with confusion.  
  
“They do. Oh, they do,” Lily said with conviction and a touch of anger. “Nonetheless, when you marry one of them, give birth to another, and name a third to be the godfather of your children, you can only trust them to do as they say and live with the disappointment when they don't.”  
  
Before either Lily or Bethany could say anything more on the subject, the grandfather clock in the sitting room chimed, singling that it was ten o'clock.   
  
Lily closed her eyes in defeat, while her daughter glanced back at the floo.   
  
“Go,” Lily said without opening her eyes. If she hadn't bore witness to her husband's suffering when he crawled into their bed at night, she'd be inclined to rage at him until her throat was raw and she couldn't utter another syllable. As things were, she just wished he'd talk to her like he use to. And yet, she wasn't so certain that she truly wanted to know his secrets. Him, Harry, and Sirius, they were all keeping from her, from everyone, a horrible truth, one with Harry at the epicenter. She could see it in the way they interacted with one another, could feel it in her own interactions with Harry.   
  
“I love you, Mum.” Bethany hugged her mother goodbye for a second time.  
  
“I love you too, sweetie.” Lily wrapped her arms around her daughter and held her close just long enough to remember that she was officially late and the longer she kept Bethany, she was making Sirius and Mayra just as late as she was. “Go,” she instructed and pushed her daughter to towards the flew. She knew the forced smile on her face wasn't fooling either of them, but as she had said, she'd married the man, bore his heir, and agreed to name his best friend godfather of their children. _He'll make all of this right in the end,_ she assured herself. _He always does._  
  
When the emerald flames of the floo died down and Lily was left officially alone in her once full and joyful home, she steeled herself for the night to come. With almost mechanical motions, she closed down the house, making sure no candles or oil lamps were left burning, ensuring that all the windows were properly shut and that the curtains were drawn. At the front door, she wrapped herself in her favorite emerald cloak and stepped out of the house, locking the door behind her. She walked to the end of path with a determined stride. Just inside the gate, she paused and took one last strength infusing breath.  
  
“You are strong,” she reminded herself. The years had taken their toll on her, but no more. There was a light at the end of the hellish tunnel her family now faced. She'd seen it in her son's eyes just before he had left on Monday, after his brief meeting with Mr. Earnshaw. There had been fire in his emerald eyes that were so like hers, yet not – a fire that told of his willingness to rip the world asunder, before he allowed any form of harm to come to any of them. And as much as she wished to continue to see him as her little boy, she had known in that moment that their eyes had locked that his conviction was deadly. It scared her. It scared her to the depths of her soul, but it also comforted her and filled her with hope.   
  
“Voldemort, you chose wrong all those years ago,” Lily murmured quietly to herself, knowing her words to be the truth. “He'll be your death and the rise of a new Britain. Lord help those who stand in his way,” she added softly.  
  
With that, she apparated. She may sit in the Order meeting tonight without her husband or son at her side, but for them she would not let their absence show on her face or be questioned. They had their reasons for not being with her tonight, whatever those reasons may be.


End file.
